


If You Want A Life Of Action

by runningondreams



Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Angst, Cap-Iron Man Big Bang 2014, Cockroaches, Comfort, Don't panic, Drama, Fluff, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Lots of kissing, M/M, Mentions of alcoholism, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, More Fluff, More angst, Non-Graphic Violence, Not a Civil War fic, ridiculous men in love, team stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 11:57:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 72,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2620883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runningondreams/pseuds/runningondreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve wants to start up the Avengers again, and it’s not like Tony can tell him no. There's a lot to do after the Raft breakout, after all: The new team needs work, villains need catching and there’s a missing superhero to find. And that’s not even counting his work on the armor, his projects for SI, or making sure Steve doesn’t disappear to sulk endlessly in his apartment. When they start trying to add romance to the mix it’s really a miracle things go so well for so long.</p><p>Written for the Cap-Iron Man Big Bang Challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. F.R.A.N.C.E.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pinkelephant42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkelephant42/gifts).



> My entry for the 2014 [cap_ironman](http://cap-ironman.livejournal.com/) Big Bang. Many thanks to [Pinkelephant42](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkelephant42/pseuds/Pinkelephant42) for the gorgeous art she created for this fic, which can be viewed in a masterpost [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2620817). 
> 
> Also thanks to all the folks who hang out in the cap-im chat for the encouragement and writing sprints, and especially to [iloome](http://archiveofourown.org/users/iloome/pseuds/iloome), who did far more than simply beta this fic. Thank you for the hand-holding, cheerleading, patience and good advice; you're awesome, and I probably would have had a nervous breakdown without you.
> 
> The title is from Ovid's [Love and War](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/love-and-war/) (Amores 1.9), translated by Jon Corelis.

It's not a particularly great day to be an Avenger. Spider-Man is limping as they board the quinjet and Spider-Woman's favoring her left hand. Power Man and Wolverine aren't hurt, at least, but neither of them exactly came out of the fight looking like winners.

Tony's glad for his helmet as he guides the quinjet back to Stark Tower. The new team wouldn't benefit from seeing his face right now, and Steve probably already knows what he's thinking, given the way he's determinedly not glancing over at Tony, even though he's sitting in the copilot's seat.

Steve's shoulders are so stiff and straight Tony's a little worried for his back muscles, and he hasn't said a word since the UFoes slipped out of their grasp.

With even the sound of the engines buffered, the silence is suffocating. It’s their first real failure as a team (not counting the initial Raft riot, because he’s not holding them responsible for that), and they’re not taking it well. Not that they ever do; if there's one common thread among superheroes Tony’s noticed over the years, it’s a tendency to take anything less than success as defeat.

"Well," Spider-Man says as Tony finishes the landing procedures and starts shutting down the systems, "That sucked." He’s applying butterfly bandages to a gash on his foot, spots of blood staining his suit a darker red. Tony makes a note to call the Night Nurse as soon as Peter agrees to an appointment. His arm's only just healed from the fight during the prison break, and they need everyone at their best.

Luke snorts. "That's one way to put it." He’s got his arms crossed, his shoulders hunched up near his ears.

"It was sloppy is what it was," Logan says, scowling at everyone. It’s not too different from Logan's usual expression though, so Tony's not going to attach too much importance to it.

"No one wins every day," Jessica says, still cradling her hand. They'll want to get that looked at too, probably. Tony spares a wistful thought for the days when they had Hank McCoy on the team, or even Hank Pym. Someone with a little more medical knowledge. Tony's the only one on this team without powers but they're still going to need more than basic first aid sometimes.

They're all looking at Steve, he realizes, even Logan. Looking for hope or a pat on the back or some kind of validation, maybe. It's an expression he knows by heart.

"We'll have to be better," Steve says, frowning, and there's a collective slumping of shoulders.

"Everyone get some rest," Tony says when it becomes obvious Steve's not going to say anything more. "I know you all have a change of clothes here somewhere, and Jarvis can send out for anything else you need. Spider-Man, Spider-Woman, get yourselves a medical opinion on those injuries. If you don’t have someone to go to I’ll make a call to the Night Nurse. We'll need you both at full strength when the next call comes in."

It's a dismissal, and they all know it. They file out of the passenger compartment silently, Spider-Man glancing over at Cap once or twice as he hops out awkwardly, and Tony hangs back, waiting for Steve to shake himself out of whatever funk he's fallen into. He's frowning, his eyes unfocused, hands running back and forth over the rim of the shield over and over, like just the feel of it could give him the answers he's looking for.

I did try to tell you, Tony thinks. It's so tempting to say it. Maybe it would shock a reaction out of his friend. Maybe it would just make things worse.

He sighs and takes off the helmet. His hair is damp on his neck and forehead, and he could really use a shower, but apparently he's doing the team leader thing again, and that means hashing out the next steps now, while they're still glaringly aware of their failings.

"Agility training for Power Man and Wolverine," he suggests, setting the helmet down on an empty seat and pulling at the manual catches for the gauntlets. "Tandem flight for the Spider-people. Some combo drills in two and three-man teams, maybe simulations against some of the escapees we have personal experience with."

He sets the gauntlets next to the helmet and reaches up for the chest plate. At least Steve is looking at him now, even if he doesn't seem to be entirely present yet.

"We can invite MJ and Jessica Jones here maybe, get Xavier's help with Logan. Convince everyone to spend a few weeks actually living here. Shake some of the kinks out."

Steve shakes his head, still frowning.

"They shouldn't have fallen apart like that," he says.

"They're still new to this," Tony reminds him. "It took a while to get Wanda, Pietro and Clint into shape too."

He doesn't mention that Wanda and Pietro had already been used to working together. That Clint's hero-worship of Steve had towered even above Spider-Man's. They'd all been looking for redemption. This new team is a whole different challenge.

He tries not to think about what happened to that team, in the end.

"You're unusually calm about this," Steve says, a hint of a smile on his lips. "You're stealing all my lines."

Tony quirks an eyebrow at him. "I've been at this even longer than you have, Winghead. I know this dance. Besides," he leans the chest- and back plates against the seat and starts working on his boots. "None of this is the part of starting up the team I had reservations about, if you'll remember."

There's a twist of bitterness there, he can't help it. He'll never say that Steve was wrong - the city does need them, and Tony had been drifting a bit without the anchor of the Avengers in his life, but it does rankle that he's still bearing the brunt of the team's support.

Steve at least has the grace to look apologetic.

"I'll tell Jessica to call SHIELD as soon as I can, give them an update," he says, but Tony's already shaking his head.

"Did it while we were still on the ground. Rang the Foundation too, to see about the property damage." He steps out of the boots and piles the leg armor carefully. The undersuit is stuck to his skin, pulling uncomfortably under his arms and over his knees now that it's exposed to open air.

Steve frowns at him. "You didn't have to—"

"Yeah, I did actually," Tony interrupts. "The sooner we give notice, the less time the press has to speculate. But the Foundation can't keep doing this." He spreads his hands helplessly. "There just isn't enough money, Steve. Even without wages, without the UN breathing down our necks, there's still property damage to take care of and jets to repair and SHIELD to fence with. And if we don't do those things we're just a handful of vigilantes, and the public will eat us alive eventually. Like they did with Daredevil. There are people out there that still think re-forming the team is just painting a bigger target on New York."

Steve looks pained, but Tony knows he can't help but see this too.

"So what do we do?" he asks, looking back at the shield, his frown more sad than frustrated now.

Tony sighs. They can't disband the team. Even if all the Raft escapees were back behind bars, he couldn't do that to Steve again. He doesn't want to.

"We get better. We train, we get some good press, and if we have to, we straight-up ask people for money. The Foundation's having a fundraiser in a few weeks. If we make an appearance and press the flesh for a few hours we might actually be able to make a dent in the costs we're racking up."

Steve rubs his hand over his face.

"You know I've never been very good at that," he says, and Tony can't help but snort.

"You're excellent at it, people love giving you money just because you show up and smile at them, you just don't like taking it. But I'm gonna need you to get over that because I can't run this whole campaign by myself." He catches Steve's gaze and holds it. "I need you to be there, in uniform if necessary, in your mess dress if not. My name doesn't carry nearly as much weight as it used to."

Steve nods, reluctant, but Tony knows it's as good as a promise from anyone else.

"Just let me know when," Steve says, "For now I'll draw up some training scenarios and talk to the others about being here for practice."

"Great." Tony sighs, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. "You'd think, after ten years of this we'd have it down. I don't remember it being quite so tiring. I feel like my bones'll creak if I move too fast."

Steve smiles at that.

"You must be getting old, Shellhead. Stiff and forgetful."

"Har, har, old man. Not everyone can be a perfect specimen of humanity all the time." Tony says. “Armor: Assemble. Return to the lab.”

“Acknowledged.”

Steve stands to walk beside him, shield in hand. "We could always work on that, you know. You've stayed in good shape, but a little more training never hurts." His smile turns to a grin. "Want to meet me in the gym after you change out of that thing?” He gestures at the undersuit.

Tony lets himself be tempted for a moment. One-on-one time with Steve is something to be treasured, the memories stored up against his bad days, when nothing goes right and he's so close to crawling inside a bottle that he has to lock himself in the workshop and cut the communicator channels until he's able to subsume the yearning into a project, a new design, anything he can do to keep his hands busy.

Steve is a lifeline he clings to, especially after Rumiko. He’s a talisman to remind Tony that he can be better, that he should. That there's something worth more to him than the oblivion that comes with drinking.

But then, hand-to-hand training is pretty one-sided, and he can never quite keep himself from getting distracted by Steve's shoulders when he should be watching for tells, or his chest when he should be blocking blows.

He shakes his head.

"I'll have to take a raincheck on that one, Cap. I need to get over to the office and make sure no one's found a new way to run my company into the ground."

And it's not even a lie - he'd promised Pepper he'd do his paperwork, promised the board he'd have specs for a new phone upgrade by the end of the week. But he could've blown that off a little longer, if he'd wanted to. It's just ... He's only just gotten this part of his life back - no need to risk it over his continuing crush on America's favorite icon. It would be just the sort of bad decision he's best at.

Steve looks disappointed, but he just claps a hand to Tony's shoulder on his way out of the quinjet.

"I'll hold you to that, Shellhead. We've got some catching up to do ourselves."

 _Yeah,_ Tony thinks, _You got it, Cap._

***

  
Tony's elbow-deep in microchip blueprints when his phone rings. It’s Steve’s ringtone, so he digs it out from under the jumble of folders covering his desk.

"What do you need, Cap?" He pins the phone between his cheek and shoulder and goes back to searching through the blueprints. He'd had it right here, not too long ago—

"Are you going to be back for dinner?" Steve asks, his voice slightly distorted by the electronics. Better microphones and speakers for the new phone, Tony makes a note. Then he looks around for a clock.

"Uh, I—" According to the display on his laptop it's just after 6:00. "Probably not," he admits, "why?"

"I thought we could make it a team meeting, talk about training and the moving idea you mentioned."

Damn. He really should be there for that. Maybe if he takes some of this home, spends a few hours after they eat—

"What time, do you think?" he asks, finally finding the missing print and rolling it up quickly. "I'm still at the office, but I can wrap things up here, get there by—" he squints at the clock. "—7:30." He winces.

"It's not a worry Tony. If you're not here when we start we'll wait before we talk about the serious stuff."

Which is nice of Steve to say and all, but Tony’s one of the leaders of this thing. He should be there.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he says.

Just over an hour later Tony debates changing into the armor, but it’s really not the most comfortable thing to eat in so just takes the elevator up and ditches his jacket in his rooms, rolls up his sleeves and shows up in the common area as Jarvis is clearing away the food. Peter’s wearing his costume with his mask scrunched up over his nose and Steve’s got his mail on under a jacket, but the rest of them are in casual clothes. Neither Luke nor Logan looks happy to be there.

“Tony,” Steve gets up to clap him on the back. “Glad you could make it.”

"Sorry I'm late," Tony said. "Looks like I missed a good meal."

"We saved you a plate, Master Anthony," Jarvis says as he passes them.

"I'll get it," Steve offers, disappearing into the kitchen.

"Thanks," Tony calls after him. There are still a few empty seats at the table (he's putting it down to nostalgia, but a table for 10 in a dining room he was never expecting to share isn't as easy to explain as the quinjets), so he picks one where he'll have a decent chance of meeting most of his teammates eyes. It puts him on the opposite end of the table from Steve with empty chairs between him and anyone else, but it can't be helped.

Possibly he should get a round table up here, but Luke and Peter would probably never let him live it down.

"Did you get that hand checked out?" he asks Jessica.

She shrugs and holds up her hand, showing off a light splint. "SHIELD took care of it."

"I wish my job offered that kind of medical coverage," Peter complains. "Nurse Carter’s going to get tired of seeing me at this rate."

"SI has openings in R&D, if you're interested," Tony offers. "We have excellent benefits packages."

"It used to be the Avengers had a pretty good benefits package." Luke points out.

He’s probably thinking about Jess and the kid on the way. They’ll deal with that when the day comes. For now, Tony just shrugs. "Believe it or not, I am not actually made of money."

"And yet, you've still opened your home to us," Steve says, setting a plate of steak and potatoes and a full salad bowl in front of him. "For which we're grateful."

"It wouldn't be the same without a secret hideout," Jessica says, smiling.

"It's not gonna stay secret for very long, not if we keep meeting like this," Logan says.

"You're right," Steve says, taking his seat. "It won't. But we'll deal with that when we have to. For the moment we have more pressing concerns."

They all turn to listen, and Tony concentrates on eating. There'll be a point when Steve asks for his input, but for now Tony's happy to stay in the background.

Steve talks about teamwork, about what happened with the UFoes. He pulls up diagrams and points out weaknesses, shifts in the battle that could've been avoided. Moments they should've taken advantage of. He highlights moments of cohesion and how they fell apart and outlines a training program that Tony could've designed himself—agility, endurance, powers applications, duo and trio cross-training. Tony watches their teammates. Luke settles back into his chair, crossing his arms. Jessica leans on her elbows, looking more like a SHIELD agent than she's seemed since Steve recruited her.

As Steve's winding down, Peter leans forward.

"So, what you’re saying is that basically, we suck and you're going to take us back to school so we can try again," he says.

"No, what I'm saying is that it takes practice to create good teamwork and we could all use some practice," Steve says, patient confidence practically radiating from him.

"Every team has a different feel to it," Tony adds, trying to catch Jessica's eyes. "We have to learn each other’s strengths and weaknesses instinctively, we have to know what we can trust each other to do and when someone might need help. It's just part of being an Avenger."

"So I assume you and Cap will be joining us in these 'exercises'?" Luke asks, leaning over his crossed arms.

"Of course," Steve assures him. "Tony and I need to get used to working with all of you just as much as you need to get used to working with us and each other."

Luke raises an eyebrow, and Logan snorts.

"What?" Tony asks.

"You two act like you're the only ones on the field, sometimes, you know that?"

Steve shakes his head. "We're used to working together, that's not—"

"Hey, I get it.” Luke holds up his hands, placating. “Captain America and Iron Man, founding Avengers, ten years of building a legacy—you guys have fought some serious people together and God knows you're practically joined at the hip, but it does seem to make you a bit blind to the rest of us sometimes."

"Steve's not actually a founding Avenger," Tony says before he can stop himself.

They all stare at him.

"Sorry, sorry, old, ah, inside joke, don't worry about it, please continue."

"You have concerns, Luke?" Steve says, ignoring Tony's fumbling.

"I just want to make sure that when we do these drills, we include some where you guys aren't on the same team or gunning for the same objective."

"Agreed," Steve says. "Let me know if you have any specifics you'd like to work over—Tony's got a pretty sophisticated system set up. There are a lot of scenarios we can simulate."

"Ok,” Jess nods, “So what's the second thing you wanted to talk about?"

"I think it'd be good for our teamwork if we all lived here for a week or two at least," Steve says.

"Uh, no." Peter raises his hand. "Can I vote no? I vote no."

"I agree with him," Luke jerks his thumb in Peter's general direction. "No way. I've got a pregnant wife, I'm not leaving her alone to play families with all of you."

"You can bring your families, if you like," Tony offers. "I have plenty of space here."

They’re hesitant, all of them. Steve meets his eyes across the table. He’s frowning a little, the lines around his eyes a little tense, but his shoulders are straight and his hands are hidden by the table.

“I’ll do it,” Jessica says, and Tony flicks his gaze to her. She leans on her elbow and tucks her hair behind her ear.

“Your guest rooms are probably better than my SHIELD apartment, anyway,” she says.

Tony smirks. “I’ll see what I can do,” he tells her.

“Me too,” Logan says, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. “I don’t know what kind of deal you worked out with the Professor, Stark, but he’s on board with me being here 24/7 if that’s what it takes.”

“Thank you, Logan,” Steve says, his frown lifting a bit.

Tony glances between Luke and Peter, waiting.

Luke breaks first, heaving a long sigh and settling his elbows on the table.

“I’ll talk to Jess. See what she wants to do.” He stares up at Tony, turns to Steve. “That’s not a guarantee. I’m not moving her up here if she’s not comfortable with it.”

Steve nods.

They all look to Peter. He wrinkles his nose.

“Come on guys, stop, I’ll talk to people, Ok? But I’ve got a day job to go to, and my identity to protect. It’s alright for you,” he nods at Tony, “Tony Stark and Iron Man both live here. But there’s gotta be a pretty airtight reason for Peter Parker to be going in and out of Stark Tower.”

“I really could hire you,” Tony offers. “I know you’ve got a brain in there somewhere. I could hire your wife too. SI always needs more competent people.”

Peter shakes his head. “I happen to like my job, thanks.”

“Just think about it,” Steve says, placating. “It doesn’t have to happen overnight.”

Peter nods, and that seems to be it. Steve looks around at everyone.

“Ok then. We’ll have the first training session tomorrow at 17:30 to allow for Tony and Peter’s schedules. Everyone good with that?”

They all nod, and the tension at the base of Tony’s neck eases a little. It’s not like it was, of course, but it’s not a disaster, either. They’ll pull it together. And with Steve leading them they’ll do it quickly.

He smiles through the pleasantries as they get up to leave—Jess will move her stuff in over the next few days, Logan grunts something about bringing a duffel bag over next time they have a mission—and then they’re filing out the door and Tony’s left staring at his mostly-empty plate, trying to decide whether he’s disappointed or relieved that they didn’t all just take the offer immediately.

“Thanks for doing this, Tony.”

When Tony looks up, Steve’s standing by the stairs, apparently just waiting for him.

“Doing what?” Tony asks.

“Inviting the team here. You didn’t have to do that, you—” Steve pauses and Tony cocks his head at him. Steve shrugs. “I know you’re short on time, and I know you’ve got a lot on your plate, and I just—thank you.” He smiles, and Tony finds himself smiling back. He’s probably smiled more over the past week in conversations that involved Steve and the new Avengers than he had in the month previous.

“We do need a place to meet, and even if I can’t really bankroll the team right now, I do have the most space to offer," he says.

“This is a lot more than just a place to meet, Tony.”

Tony shrugs, uncomfortable. Steve gives more of his time and energy to the team than Tony could ever manage to. Money and space are sometimes the best he can do.

“It’s stuff I had anyway, Steve, it’s really not a big deal.”

Steve shakes his head.

“Tony, you just opened up your home to us. You gave us places to sleep and train as well as a place to plan. That’s—” He stares at the floor for a moment. “Well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s the second time around for me, after all.”

Tony swallows, his throat clicking in his ears. He still visits the mansion sometimes. The garden’s mostly intact. He can’t quite bring himself to walk the halls.

“Speaking of,” he says as casually as he can manage, “Are you staying? Did you want to pick out a room?”

Steve chuckles. “I’d love to.”

There are, admittedly, a lot of rooms for Steve to choose from. There are some by the hanger, or the gym, or the training room. But Tony’s pretty sure Steve, being Steve, is going to want a room close to the common areas, where he can interact with the team and check in on whoever’s there.

And with this new team, Tony can’t blame him. There are probably going to be more than a few flaring tempers as they all figure out how to work together, but Steve was right. They need to do this. Still, at least they've already all seen each other naked. After the incident in the Savage Land that's one Avengers milestone they won't need to be surprised by.

"You remember your override, right?" he asks, leading Steve down the first hall off the living room. If he doesn’t like anything here they’ll try near the kitchen.

Steve nods. "Of course."

"It'll work for pretty much everything in the Tower, if you need it," Tony tells him. “Here, try this one.”

There’s a balcony in this room, the décor all soothing shades of blue and cream with warm hints of yellow.

“Are you living up here?” Steve asks as he inspects the bedside table.

“Sometimes,” Tony admits, leaning against the doorframe. “Most of my equipment for the armor is over at the Coney Island offices, but I’ve got a basic lab here.”

He rubs the back of his neck, trying to ease some tension there and Steve gives him a knowing look.

“How’ve you been sleeping?” he asks, quiet. The moonlight through the window casts stripes over his face and chest.

Tony gives him a wry smirk and shrugs. “Well enough, considering. What about you?”

“I'm fine,” Steve says, fluffing the bedspread. Of course.

“Right,” Tony sighs. “Hopefully neither of us will collapse on a mission anytime soon.”

Steve shakes his head, walking back to the door. “I’m good, Tony. But I worry about you. You lost more than most of us.”

“I’m handling it,” Tony insists. His back is stiff. He shifts back to balance on his feet instead of the wall.

Not that he doesn’t have his bad days, but Steve doesn’t need to listen to Tony’s problems. He’s got problems of his own.

Steve nods. “Ok. But if you ever want to talk, you’ll tell me, right?”

“Sure, Cap.” He isn’t going to talk about it. If he hadn’t done it after Rumiko, he’s pretty sure he never will.

“You’ve spent an awful lot of time listening to my problems, Shellhead” Steve says, his expression serious. “Listening to a few of yours seems like the least I can do.”

“Nah,” Tony smiles, spreads his hands, tries to shift the mood. “The least you can do is pick a room so we can move on to planning our villain-fighting strategy. You don’t need to spend a long time on this, Cap. It’s just a place to crash; I know you’ve got your own place.”

Steve ducks his head.

“I was thinking I might really move in, actually, for most of the time.” He admits, and Tony freezes.

“If that’s alright,” Steve looks up quickly.

“Of course,” Tony reassures him. “That’s what it’s here for.”

It’s probably better, really. In the long run. Tony’s not always going to be available, even if he does live and work in the Tower most of the time. He’s just—surprised.

“Great,” Steve smiles. “I’ll bring some stuff up in the morning.”

Tony blinks. “Don’t you want to see any more rooms?” he asks.

“This one’s fine,” Steve insists. “I like it. And I know you wouldn’t offer it if you didn’t think it would work.”

Which is true, but still. There are four more floors of empty rooms Steve could choose from.

“Ok,” Tony says. “If—” he shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair. “I guess if you change your mind later it’ll be easy enough to move.”

Steve claps a hand to Tony’s shoulder.

“It’ll be fine,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, sure,” Tony replies. Steve’s steering them back toward the elevator. He stops in front of it, presses the call button.

“You should get some sleep tonight,” he says as the doors open. “That’s an order, Avenger.”

Tony snorts, but he can help but smile at the curl of warmth in his chest. Avenger. Yeah.

“Whatever you say, Cap.”

Steve gives him a mock-stern look as the doors close, and then Tony’s alone.

Again.

He stares at a painting of the old team, one of the handful of portraits that hadn’t been damaged by smoke or weather exposure when the mansion went up in flames.

Jan grins at him, Steve and Thor at her shoulders, Hank and Iron Man finishing out the frame.

His eyes ache. Maybe he _should_ sleep.

He makes his way to his rooms slowly, nods to Jarvis along the way and just puts one foot in front of the other, his body on autopilot while his brain works.

He's still not sure how he's going to manage all the responsibilities he's taken on. Joining the Avengers again is big enough, especially given the way the board at SI is breathing down his neck, but it's something else to house them, to lead them, even if Steve's giving most of the orders. It's not a commitment he would've taken on for anyone else. There are so many details to take care of, so many fires to put out, and he can't just leave it all in Steve's hands either.

It's not going to work. At some point, it's going to fall apart. Maybe it'll be the team, maybe it'll be the company. Maybe it'll be him, stretched too thin and too vulnerable to react quickly enough. God, he hopes it's not him. He'll have to redouble his efforts on armor mods and innovations he can release to the public at the same time—he needs to be faster, stronger, tougher.

All he can see anymore are breaking points. Luke's family commitments. Jessica's secrets, whatever they are. Peter's identity conflict. Steve's stubborn unwillingness to bend his point of view. Logan's dual loyalties. The old Avengers didn't have half those problems, and they still fell apart in the worst way possible.

They're still missing something, too, even with Logan. There are too many heavy-hitters on the list of escapees, and Tony allows himself a moment to wish they knew where Thor was. He'd be a lot more confident of their chances as a team if they had someone closer to Thor's level. Someone like Sentry, but he’s been missing since the prison break. As it is, Tony himself is their biggest source of firepower. They're going to have to train for that, and train doubly for the times he won't be able to be there. Because there will be times. He has conferences and business trips scheduled months in advance, the chance that nothing will happen those days and weeks is too small to be significant.

Maybe he can talk to Carol. She could fill in for him if they needed it, even if she's not willing to be on the team full time. Maybe Rhodey’d be willing to help out too, either as Iron Man or as War Machine.

He sits on his bed and makes notes for a while—contingency plans, emergency procedures. Wanda burned most of their safety net when she destroyed the team, but he’ll do what he can. Stage some fundraisers, a series of press conferences, sound out the others on ideas that might be good for the Avengers PR.

It’s not going to be easy, but he can do it. _They_ can do it.

He never could resist anything Steve asked of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> F.R.A.N.C.E. - a postal acronym dating to WWII, usually written on the back of the envelope. It stands for "Friendship Remains And Never Can End."


	2. I.T.A.L.Y.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I.T.A.L.Y. - I'm Thinking About Loving You

Steve’s more than ready to get his team back in the field by the time their next mission comes around. Armadillo surfaces in the middle of a sunny day and, as far as Tony's reported scans indicate, he’s acting alone. He's destroyed most of the first-floor windows of the Daily Bugle's offices and appears to be intent on tearing out the cinderblock foundation.

“Think he got some bad press?” Spider-Man quips, swinging around to land on an upper-story window.

“I think he’s got some more coming,” Power Man says. He’s squaring his shoulders and looks ready to take the villain on by himself.

“Your girlfriend’s fine, by the way,” Tony tells him over the communicators. “She’s the one that called the Avengers line. Most of the employees got out before he even made it past the lobby.”

The improvement of even just a few days of training shows in their movements—Iron Man circling wide to confirm the threat perimeter, Spider-Woman holding position above the threat, the rest of them evenly spaced to get a good jump if Armadillo decides to try and make a break for it.

“SHIELD’s scrambling a team,” Tony says. “They’ll be ready for pick-up in eight minutes.”

“Let’s see if we can beat them to the punch,” Steve says. “Wolverine, Power Man, close in. Spider-Man, Spider-Woman, get ready to pin him down as soon as he exits the building. Iron Man -”

“On it, Cap.”

Iron Man swoops around the building and dives into the wreckage. A moment later Steve hears Armadillo yelling, and then he stumbles backward, into Steve’s view and out of the shade of the building’s second floor.

Armadillo goes down pretty quickly. Spider-Woman distracts him long enough for Wolverine to engage, and while Spider-Man’s webs don’t hold quite as well against claws that can rend concrete as Steve might have hoped, Power Man seems to take distinct pleasure in stepping in close and punching Armadillo out with a quick combination he hasn’t yet demonstrated in training exercises.

Steve lets the team handle it, and if Tony’s hovering presence at his side is any indication, they’re of the same mind about that. This isn’t a situation that needs all their strength. Besides, until they’re ready to give a press conference it’s probably best they don’t appear in an easily photographed ensemble.

“How many shirts do you think he goes through in a month?” Iron Man asks, nodding at Power Man. His jeans are still mostly intact –just one long rent down his right thigh- but the shirt is a mass of tattered ribbons.

“He hasn’t said anything about it,” Steve points out.

“There are a lot of things Luke Cage doesn’t talk about, Cap.”

A crowd is growing now, and Spider-Man and Wolverine only just manage to make it out of sight before there’s a full circle around Power Man and Spider-Woman.

They can’t hide Peter’s involvement, but as twitchy as he is about the press, and the Daily Bugle in particular, Steve’s not surprised he made himself scarce. His read on Wolverine’s a little more complicated, but it’s possible Logan just didn’t want the headache of onlookers. Mutants rarely get good headlines, and Logan’s past is especially checkered.

“Luke won’t thank you for putting clothes in his closet without asking,” Steve tells Iron Man as the SHIELD team moves in.

“I wasn’t going to do _that_ ,” Iron Man insists.

“Uh-huh,” Steve teases. “You’re definitely not looking at online clothing sites right now either.”

Iron Man snorts and holds out his arm.

“Can I offer you a ride back to the Tower, Captain Know-it-All, or would you like to scramble over rooftops to get home today?”

Steve slings his arm over Iron Man’s shoulders and steps up onto one rocket boot.

“You’re just sore you didn’t get any more hits in,” he says.

“Whatever you say Cap,” Iron Man says, launching them into the sky, wind threatening to rip Steve’s cowl off his face.

He grins. This part. He’s missed this part.

He hasn't felt this good in months. Every time they put another villain back behind bars the future looks brighter. There's nothing quite as satisfying as finishing a fight, and to do it with the Avengers beside him, to know he has a team at his back and friends on his side is intoxicating.

And Iron Man is there. Always ready with a joke or a repulsor blast or a quick airlift.

It was the prison break at the Raft that decided things, for Steve anyway. He'd been fully expecting to hit the water and have to drag himself out of the Atlantic in wet mail and leather when Tony caught him and stopped his fall.

There had been just a moment when they were falling together, Tony matching his speed so he didn't rip Steve's shoulder out of its socket. Like they planned the whole thing. The way they've done it a thousand times, even if Steve couldn't have expected Tony to be there and Tony couldn't have expected to arrive at exactly that moment.  
There are a lot of strange coincidences and last-minute saves in the superhero business, but that level of teamwork—Steve's not going to take that for granted. It’s energizing, to have Tony at his side again. Everything just … flows more smoothly, from fighting to talking and back again. There's something there worth keeping, something worth pursuing, even if it'll be difficult after what happened with Wanda.

And the new team—coming together like that, in the right place at the right time. It’s everything he’s always known the Avengers could be. Sure, there are some rough edges yet, but the potential is there.

What Tony said after that disaster of a mission against the UFoes though—Steve needs to do a better job of making sure everyone's pulling their weight, that much is obvious. The Avengers have always had a tendency to lean on Tony's generosity, but they've lost that luxury. All the little details—talking to Jess about SHIELD, coordinating with Jarvis on things they need, keeping track of everyone's whereabouts—he's done all those sorts of things before. And he'll need to speak with the team without Tony, make sure they know to keep an eye out for signs he's overworking himself.

Tony needs someone to be there for him, just in case. He’d deny it to the grave, but Steve knows Tony would also work himself to the bone making sure everyone had everything they needed. He’s seen the stock numbers. Stark Industries needs Tony, and it needs whatever good press the Avengers can drum up.

There are still places that show the footage form the UN sometimes. They can't do it officially, of course: SI is very, very good at protecting Tony's image when they want to be—but that doesn't mean it doesn't happen.

The whole world knows Tony's weaknesses. They deserve to know more of his strengths.

Tony takes the long way back to the Tower, which probably has more to do with the thrill he gets from the flight itself than any attempt to avoid being seen. Steve can’t blame him. Even secondhand, there’s nothing quite like flying without a plane.

As they come up on the landing pad, Steve finds himself wishing they could just stay like this. Just the two of them in a patch of sky, no villains, no team, no responsibilities.

It's the endorphins, Steve's pretty sure. He's always felt looser after a fight, even if he didn’t get any hits in himself. More alert, in a way, more inclined to take a chance on something he might otherwise let lie.

He's also been spending a lot of time lately in close quarters with Tony, fighting back to back, hitching rides across the battlefield and back to the tower. He's not sure whether he should be glad or disappointed that there's no way for Tony to actually feel Steve's arm around his shoulders, because he's been pretty aware of Tony's armored arm around his waist for the last ten minutes, and it's starting to interrupt his thought process.

They touch down and Steve steps away. Just a little distance, a few deep breaths.

"Cap, you got a minute?" Tony asks, behind him.

When Steve turns to look at him Tony's leaning against the wall, his head resting against it and the length of his neck on display within the confines of his helmet.

"Sure, Tony" Steve says, pushing away his thoughts. "What's up?" he asks.

"The Foundation fundraiser's tonight," Tony says, swaying into a more upright stance. "Can you make it?"

The fundraiser. Between the new team training schedule and the ongoing search for both the escapees and any sign of Sentry, he'd mostly forgotten about it.

"Can you?" Steve asks, frowning. "You look like the last thing you need is to go to a party and shake hands all night, Tony."

"I'll be fine," Tony insists. "But I could still use your help. Tux, uniform, mess dress, whatever you want."

It's not anything like at the top of Steve's list for the evening, but he's hardly going to leave Tony to fend for himself, and it’s for a good cause.

"What time?" he asks.

"If we leave by 7, we can be fashionably late."

"Is that a good idea?"

"Since it's already 6, it's pretty much the only idea I’ve got."

"Right." Steve rubs his hand over his face, wincing when he realizes there’s concrete dust on that glove, probably off the armor. "Ok. Meet in the kitchen in 20?"

"Better make it 30," Tony noted. "It's going to take me a minute to get out of all this."

***

The fundraiser turns out to be at the Met, which Tony only deigns to tell him after they're halfway there. It's not really anything like Steve expects. He was thinking maybe some speeches, a formal meal, announcements, but this is more like a party for people who have way too much money so that Tony and the Foundation board can ply them with food and drink and try to part them from some of their cash. There are hors d-oeuvres on scattered tables and an endless number of black-suited servers moving through the crowd with small trays of champagne.

It’s not really Steve’s thing, the atmosphere or the method, but Tony had asked him to come and … well, he’s probably the best choice, really. The rest of the team doesn’t have their experience with these kinds of things. Besides, at least he can look at the art if he gets bored or needs a conversation topic.

Tony’s spent most of the night flitting from group to group, shaking hands and offering compliments and extolling the virtues of the Maria Stark Foundation through a broad smile that doesn’t look anything like the one he usually turns on Steve. His tux is perfectly tailored, of course, cut for lean lines that make him look more sleek businessman than superhero.

Steve’s spent a little time at the same glad-handing mission, though he definitely looks the superhero part in his mess dress - Captain America’s reputation is pretty impressive to the right people, and while he doesn’t enjoy playing on it, he‘s very aware of how much ground they need to make up. Without governmental support Tony and the Foundation are the only barrier they’ve got between the Avengers and angry civilians after a fight. Steve’s not going to let his team fall apart again because of some detail like money, and if shaking a few hands and saying a few words to the right people will make Tony’s life a little easier, well, Steve’s happy to do it.

The decorations are flawless, the food is delicious and the alcohol is free-flowing. Most of the guests are indulging, and about half of them are visibly tipsy, if not actually drunk. They laugh just a touch too loud, smile a little wider, and every handshake Steve reaches for lasts a few seconds longer than is entirely appropriate.

Tony hasn’t so much as held a glass since they arrived.

It’s an art, really, the way he stays just long enough, shakes hands, holds out business cards for both Stark Industries and the Foundation—there’s no room for a champagne flute in his dance. He gives the impression of gregarious goodwill to group after group, always staying just ahead of the circulating waiters and their trays.

In fact, Steve’s fairly certain that Tony hasn’t had a thing to eat or drink in the last two hours. And since they were fighting Armadillo beforehand neither of them had much of a chance to do more than shower and dress when they got back to the Tower. Which means Tony probably hasn’t eaten more than an energy bar or two since his breakfast coffee and he’s likely going to crash soon if he doesn’t have something.

Steve’s actually a little surprised he’s lasted this long, but it’s not as if Tony’s a stranger to skipped meals.

Taking care of Tony is a mission Steve’s much more comfortable with than trying to win donations. He puts a few of the more choice hors d’oeuvres on a tiny plate, wraps the whole thing in a napkin and heads for the bar. The bartender is very understanding, and when Steve turns to figure out where Tony’s gone he has two full flutes in one hand and a bottle of water in his pocket. It’s ruining the crisp line of his uniform, but he can’t really bring himself to care.

He checks the drinks just to be sure, but there’s no hint of alcohol to the sparkling cider he was served. Good.

Tony’s flirting with a woman in a glittery blue dress, her perfect makeup and carefully curled hair just hinting at her age. Tony’s got his hand on her arm and is giving her his most charming smile when Steve catches his eye, and it’s a little gratifying how quickly he disentangles himself from her—a quick word and another smile and he’s meeting Steve halfway.

Steve holds out the glasses.

“I thought you could use a break,” he says as Tony takes one, and it warms something in Steve that he doesn’t even sniff it before he takes a sip. That out of all the people in this room who’ve probably tried to get him a drink this evening, Steve’s the person he’ll take one from. And without a single doubt that Steve will lead him astray.

“I’ll admit I was getting a little thirsty,” Tony says, a wry grin on his lips, and Steve wonders how close he’s cut it tonight.

“I’ve got water too, if you want it,” he offers. “And food.”

Tony quirks an eyebrow at him.

“You don’t have to mother me, Cap, I can feed myself.”

“Of course you can, Tony,” Steve grins. “I just want some company for a minute and thought we could share a few things off the buffet.” He nods at a little alcove framed by potted palms to his left. “Maybe over there, out of the way.”

Tony gives him a look that says he’s not buying it, but he follows Steve anyway, and when they’re out of the crowd and Steve offers up the little plate of finger food, Tony takes a cocktail shrimp without comment.

“Are you having any luck?” Steve asks. He takes a sip from his own glass, ignoring the food. He’s had enough for the moment and he’ll get a real meal later. The cider is perfectly chilled, a relief after the hot press of people. Tony shrugs, reaching for another piece of shrimp.

“It’s always hard to say, with these things. Think I’ve got a few takers though. People seem glad to see superheroes working together again, even with the, ah, questionable press coverage.” He reaches for the plate again, picking up a mini-quiche that Steve knows for a fact is more crust than egg. Still. Anything is better than nothing, right?

“That’s good,” he says, trying to think of a way to keep Tony’s attention long enough to get some water into him. He’s drinking the cider as if it really is champagne, one savored sip at a time, and that’s not going to do much against the dehydration that’s probably working on him by now.

“I talked to a few people,” he volunteers, “but it was hard to tell whether they were willing to commit to anything. I’m pretty sure at least one of them was just grateful to talk about the art instead of business.”

Tony hums as he finishes chewing.

“You know," he says, grabbing the napkin to brush crust crumbs off his fingers and out of his beard, "we could see about getting some of your stuff in here. I’m sure the curators would love to get their hands on your work.”

Steve snorts. “I doubt my work is up to their standards.”

Tony arches an eyebrow at him, taking another sip of cider.

“You might be surprised. Prices for Captain America’s paintings go pretty steep in some circles. Especially of the Avengers. I’ve even had people ask if they could buy some of your sketches.”

Steve stares. That can't be right.

“You never told me that.”

Tony shrugs. “You never asked.”

“How did anyone ever even see any of it?”

“People did visit the mansion Steve," Tony rolls his eyes. "We had events there and everything.”

Steve groans. “Tell me you haven’t sold any of them.”

“Of course not,” Tony frowns. “I wouldn’t sell your work without your permission, Steve.”

Right. Of course not. This is Tony. He's very clear on boundaries like that.

“I like them too much, anyway,” Tony adds as he takes another pastry off the plate. “And most of them belong to the Foundation, legally speaking. Though they’re yours if you want them back.”

Steve gives him an exasperated look and Tony smiles back at him, crumbs in his mustache. Steve takes a drink to hide his own smile. This really isn't the place to call attention to that kind of thing, and for a moment he wishes they were back at the mansion, sharing a joke or a meal away from prying eyes. A place Tony would feel comfortable in a t-shirt and ratty jeans. Where Steve could stop being Captain America for a few minutes and just be Steve Rogers, the man, spending time with his friend. The museum is beautiful, and the Foundation does good work, but every moment of Tony's time is valuable, and there are better things they could be doing.

He almost wishes his communicator would go off, despite the implication of even more damage to the city. Spider-Man's on database-duty tonight with strict orders to call if he even notices the slightest blip of villain activity, but after the press this afternoon they'll likely have a bit of a rest before the whole team is needed. SHIELD and the freelance heroes have most things covered, anyway.

He scans the crowd, looking for threats, checking the exits. Everything looks normal for this type of thing. Bright lights glinting off expensive jewelry and whitened teeth. Slinking waiters laden with trays of delicacies most of the guests won't even taste. Dark tuxedos and every shape and color of evening dress under the sun. For a moment he thinks he sees Jan, but no. Just someone with a similar build and haircut.

Steve shifts his weight from foot to foot, wishing for a free hand. The crowd is getting closer now, the press and heat of it starting to get to him again. Tony gives him a knowing look over his flute. He looks calmer somehow, his smile more natural, his shoulders a little more relaxed. Like he might actually be having fun.

He looks good. Happy. It’s not an expression Steve’s seen lately, on Tony or in the mirror himself. It’s nice. Makes Steve feel like he might even be happy himself, in a way.

The team is good for both of them, probably. Maybe Sharon will stop worrying about him now. He’s putting the past behind him, as much as he can.

“Feeling a bit hemmed in, Cap?” Tony asks, swirling the last of his cider around in his flute.

“Maybe.” Steve admits, sheepish.

“You can go home, you know," Tony gazes out the crowd, and Steve wonders if they see the same thing, or if Tony, veteran of more parties like this and Steve could count, reads a completely different scene.

"I’m glad you stuck it out this long, but I don’t expect you to stay all night.”

He's turned away enough that Steve can't read his expression.

“And what are you going to do?” Steve asks.

Tony shrugs and puts on his press conference smile. “You know me Cap. I’ll get it done.”

Steve just sighs and holds out the plate, waiting for Tony to take it before he responds.

“I’m not going to leave you here alone, Tony. You asked for my help, and I’m happy to give it. Just let me know what to do.”

"You don't have to," Tony insists, and Steve can’t help but smile, exasperated but more affectionate than annoyed.

"I know," he says. “I want to help.”

Tony finishes the last of the hors d’oeuvres, stares at the plate for a second and gives Steve a narrow-eyed look. Steve just shrugs, transfers his empty glass to his left hand and pulls the water bottle out of his pocket.

“Here.” He twists off the cap.

Tony sighs, but he hands over his empty flute and plate and takes the bottle.

“Seriously, Steve, I don’t need you to take care of me,” he protests even as he raises it to his lips.

“I’d rather do that than spend another few hours talking to strangers, Tony." And if Tony doesn't know that by now, Steve's just going to have to try harder.

“I think I’d actually forgotten how much of a mother hen you can be,” Tony says, but he’s smiling behind the water bottle.

“Taking care of each other is part of what being on a team means, Tony,” Steve tells him. And Tony’s his friend, too.

“I know, I know. You’ve got my back.” Tony waves off the words and takes another drink from the bottle.

“I should get back to it.” Tony looks at him sidelong. “You wanna come along? If you're going to be stubborn and stick around anyway then you can do your doting teammate act while the investors swoon over you.”

Steve rubs his thumb over his eyebrow, uncomfortable. “No one’s swooning over me, Tony.”

Tony quirks an eyebrow at him. “Have you been living under a rock for the last 10 years Cap? Because believe me, there’s swooning, and that’s even before they get an up-close look at your shoulders in that jacket. Just try not to let anyone drool on you, you’ll be fine.”

"Tony." He’s never sure how he feels about Tony’s casual compliments.

Tony just waves the water bottle over his (admittedly weak) protest.

"Are you coming, or are you going to stand in the corner all night and hold up the wall?"

"I'll come," Steve agrees. Watching Tony work the crowd firsthand is a far more entertaining prospect than trying to approach strangers on his own, and he has no intention of leaving Tony here to sit in his empty apartment tonight.

"Great." Tony tosses back the last of the water and strides over to a trashcan, dropping bottle, plate and napkin inside.

"Let's go find Dr. Renault. Hopefully, if he's staring at you he won't remember that I crashed his birthday party when I was fifteen."

Steve just shakes his head and lets Tony lead him back into the crowd.

They only make it a few feet before they’re stopped by an older gentleman with a tumbler in his hand and an apparently pressing need to speak with Tony. Steve smiles through the introductions—the man says his name is Gerald Formera, as if that should mean something to Steve, but Tony doesn’t really react so he doesn’t try too hard to remember. There’re the usual pleasantries, a few comments about Stark Industries’ charity work, and then Formera says, “Frankly, Mr. Stark, I’m sometimes surprised you’re able to sell anything. That incident at the United Nations was rather public, wasn’t it?”

Tony gets this look on his face like he’s not sure whether he should bow out of the conversation or try to defend himself, but Steve’s got that decision covered.

“All due respect, sir, I’m afraid you have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says.

Formera looks up at him, surprised.

“The man was visibly drunk in front of a panel of world leaders, Captain. He threatened the Latverian representative directly. That’s not something you can simply sweep under the rug.”

“Mr. Stark was not drunk,” Steve corrects him. “He was under magical influences, as the official Avengers press release stated at the time. He cannot be held responsible for anything he said while under that influence.”

The man just laughs, dismissive, and Steve clenches his hands into fists.

“If that were the truth,” Formera says, turning a sly little smile on Tony, “then Mr. Stark would still be sitting in the White House, wouldn’t he? No, Captain, I understand your desire to defend your friend, but hiding Mr. Stark’s mistakes will not help him. Better to have them in the open that he might begin trying to make up for them.”

“That is _not_ —” Steve starts, and Tony puts a hand on his arm, shakes his head.

_Let it go._

Steve doesn’t want to, but Tony’s already backing out of the conversation, saying something about Formera’s right to his opinions and Tony’s own desire to re-gain public trust and in the end Steve would much rather follow Tony than stay and try to change one ignorant man’s mind.

“Sorry,” he says as soon as they’ve put a few layers of crowd between themselves and Formera.

Tony just shakes his head again.

“You shouldn’t have to deal with that,” Steve tries, but Tony just shrugs, his meet-the-press smile stretched across his face as he nods at anyone trying to catch his eye.

“Business and politics, Cap. Whether or not I was actually at fault is far less important to the public than what I’ve been seen doing.”

“You’re a good man,” Steve says, “They should be able to see that.”

“The press and the public rarely care about how ‘good’ someone is, Cap, but it’s nice to hear you say so,” Tony says, and then he ducks around and starts a conversation with someone Steve vaguely recognizes from Avengers press conferences.

Topic closed. There are some things Tony just won’t talk about.

To be fair, there are things Steve doesn’t talk about either. He hasn’t told Tony about Bucky. Not really. Just the Skull and the Cube, and they haven’t mentioned it again since. Tony hasn’t talked about what happened to Rumiko either. They’re both holding on to a few things. But they’ve always done that.

The desire to hit something is still crawling under his skin, and for just a moment he wishes again that there could be some sort of emergency to call them away. Some threat he can lay his fists into.

He shakes out his hands. Forces his shoulders to relax. Smiles. Tony needs him here right now, so this is where he’ll be.

And in the back of his mind he thinks what else have we always done, and care to change that, soldier? 

***

Despite Steve's idle wishes, no call for Assembling ever comes, and he and Tony end up nearly the last to leave. Dr. Renault does indeed remember Tony crashing his party, but apparently enough time has passed that he finds it more humorous than distressing, and he tells Steve he's been giving to the Foundation for years, happy to support something that so obviously gives back to the city.

It's gratifying, and ends up setting the tone for all but one interaction for the rest of the evening.

Steve tries not to think too much about the man who brought up the destruction of the Mansion and actually accused Tony of being a drunk, not even dignifying his words with the sugar-coating of insinuation Formera had used. It had taken all of Steve’s willpower not to punch him through a wall, and he still regrets that he couldn't do more than put himself between Tony and the threat. The man had been, or at least seemed, a little cowed by having Captain America stare him down, but even Steve's words in Tony's defense hadn't been able to undo the damage. Tony's smile was more practiced, after, his conversation more stilted and his body language a study in forced relaxation.

Even when Steve had finally convinced him it was time to go home, they'd still had to wait for the chauffer to pull around, and there had been reporters even on the side doors.

They're going to need to make an announcement soon. They're showing up to too many fights as a group, and someone is going to notice their living arrangements. The team will need to go public someday. And Tony will eventually have to admit that he's still Iron Man.

He pushes the thought to the back of his mind and concentrates on keeping his hands to himself in the limo. He's tired enough that he's not quite sure he can trust himself not to do something ill-advised. He needs more time to consider all the angles.

It’s late when they get back to the Tower, and Tony’s crashing fast. The car drops them off at the private entrance and Steve holds the door for Tony, supports him with a surreptitious hand on his arm until they get to the elevator.

Tony punches in the code for Avengers’ level access and leans back against the wall, his shoulders slack and his hands hanging loose. He rolls his neck back and forth, and Steve catches himself studying the long line of his throat, the contrast between his skin and his crisp-pressed white shirt collar.

“Thanks for coming tonight,” Tony says, his voice low and rasping.

“Happy to,” Steve assures him, locking his hands behind his back. “I just hope it helped.”

“It always helps to have you next to me, Cap,” Tony says, and his smile is warm, his eyes half-hidden by his lashes.

“That so?” Steve asks, half-flirting despite his intentions to the contrary. “Maybe I’ll have to make sure it happens more often then.”

Tony cocks his head and settles more firmly against the wall.

“You seem to be doing that quite enough already.”

Steve crosses his arms, uncomfortable, not sure whether to take that as a rebuff or just Tony being Tony.

“I know you’re putting a lot of time and effort into all this for the team,” he says. “And I know you don’t have much of either to spare. So I’m glad to do anything I can to help out when you need it.”

Tony's dedication has never been in question. But maybe Steve's hovering too much. Tony needs someone to remind him to take care of himself sometimes, yes, but he's a grown man. Lord knows Steve himself isn't exactly open to being mothered.

The elevator doors open and Steve lets Tony precede him. The database is still glowing softly over the meeting table, but the only sign of Peter is a note stuck to Steve's chair with webbing. - No sign of trouble. Hope you enjoyed the party.

Tony’s quiet as they make their way through the kitchen and the living room. He stops for a second in front of the stairs, head bowed.

“What’s up?” Steve asks.

“Nothing, just -” Tony shakes his head. “This was a good night, overall.” He huffs a laugh, like he’s sharing a joke. “A few rough patches, maybe, but better than I expected. Just … a good night. I haven’t had one of those in a while.”

Steve can just make out the twist of a rueful smile on Tony’s lips. He hasn’t had a good night recently either.

“Want to watch something?” Steve offers. “Or we can just work on things. I’ll probably be up for a bit yet anyway.”

“Sure, yeah.” Tony nods, and his smile turns genuine, his back straightening. “I’d like that.”

The TV room is deserted, and Steve strips off his jacket and tie before he sits down, drapes both over the back of the couch and holds his hand out for Tony’s.

Tony gives him a dubious look, but he hands over his jacket without comment. His bowtie and cummerbund he tosses onto the coffee table in a straggle of black silk, soon followed by the soft chime of his cufflinks.

They fight over the remote briefly (Steve wins), but there’s not really anything on this late anyway.

“Movie?” Tony asks, toeing off his cap-toed shoes.

“Sure,” Steve skims through the movie channels. “What about The Seven Samurai?”

Tony tilts his head to the side, considering.

“Or From Russia with Love,” Steve adds. “That just started.”

“Sure,” Tony says, settling into the couch. “Bring on the Bond.”

It’s been so long since they did this, since they did anything _like_ this. Just relaxing. Friends. Steve’s pretty sure he hasn’t sat down and watched TV with anyone since before the mansion was destroyed.

He has far too many regrets, but somehow they’re more bearable here, with Tony at his side. Sharing the weight, maybe. Knowing he doesn’t have to explain himself, doesn’t have to lie, the way the SHIELD examiners lead him to.

He spends most of the film watching Tony out of the corner of his eye. By the third commercial break Tony’s eyes are closed, his neck at an uncomfortable-looking angle. Steve thinks about waking him, but Tony needs all the sleep he can get. He works himself too hard as it is, even without the added burdens of the team.

When the credits roll, Tony is slumped onto his side, his eyes closed and his breathing slow. He doesn’t move when Steve leans over to grab the remote off the table, or when he switches off the TV.

It’s a little sad, Steve thinks, that Tony looks even more tired and worn when he’s already asleep than he does when he’s awake. It makes him wonder how much of what the team sees is just bravado and the sheer force of Tony’s will.

That position really can’t be comfortable.

Steve kneels down next to the couch.

“Tony,” he shakes Tony’s shoulder lightly, “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

Tony’s shoulders tense and his eyes flicker open, darting around like he doesn’t know where he is. Steve waits, unmoving, and it only takes a moment for the muscles under his hand to relax again.

“Steve,” Tony mumbles, his eyes already slipping back to half-mast.

“Time to get up, Shellhead.”

He hooks his hands under Tony’s armpits and helps him to his feet. Tony slumps against him, warm and heavy with sleep, and for a moment Steve considers carrying him. But this is Tony, who takes any loss of control as a personal insult and challenge, and he probably wouldn’t appreciate that for anything less than a life-saving emergency, no matter how well-intentioned.

He slings Tony’s arm over his shoulder and takes most of his weight, slipping his own arm around Tony’s waist.

“Come on, Tony. Let’s get you to bed.”

“Mmmn.”

Tony leans into him with every step, but he walks willingly enough.

Tony’s rooms are, at least, on the main common floor, just as Steve’s are. Steve’s not entirely sure Tony could manage the stairs in his current condition.

He guides them around the shadowy furniture, their path lit only by the glow of the city at night through the windows.

Tony’s door is locked, and Steve pauses for a moment, flummoxed, but of course Tony has a right to his privacy, especially after Steve dropped the new Avengers team in his lap.

He bites his lip and tries his override. The lock clicks open obligingly.

It’s a simple enough room. Bed, night stand, three doors leading presumably to a bathroom and closet. Maybe the third is for an office, though there are enough papers and mechanical bits piled near the bed that Steve’s willing to bet if Tony has a desk in his rooms he rarely uses it.

Not that Steve has any ground to stand on in the realm of late-night work when he should be sleeping.

He tugs at Tony’s belt, pulls it out of the loops and lets Tony drop to sitting on his bed. The slacks and tuxedo shirt are probably not the best sleepwear, but he’s not sure Tony would appreciate being undressed when he isn’t quite conscious. He settles for making sure Tony's in at least a more comfortable position than he was on the couch, tucks the sheets up around Tony’s shoulders and just sits on the bed for a moment, watching Tony's eyes flicker under his eyelids, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

He brushes a bit of stray hair out of Tony's face and pats his shoulder softly, lets his hand linger for a moment before forcing himself to let go.

“Good night, Shellhead,” he says, standing and making for the door.

He’s reengaging the lock when he catches movement out of the corner of his eyes and looks up.

“Jessica?” He asks, and she nods.

“Just got a call. SHIELD wants you to come in.”

Steve rubs his hands over his face.

“Now?” he asks. She nods.

“Did they say what it was about?”

She cocks her head. “Not my mission. You’re supposed to be meeting Sharon, though.”

Steve nods.

“I’ll get the shield,” he says.

It’s going to be a long night.

 


	3. B.E.L.F.A.S.T.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> B.E.L.F.A.S.T. - Be Ever Loving, Faithful and Stay True

“You know, you and Cap spend a lot of time together.”

Tony squints at the code. There’s a bug in there, he knows there is. The surveillance drones wouldn’t be malfunctioning if there weren’t.

“Hmm?” he says, not really listening to whatever it is Peter’s saying now. It wasn’t about the code, so it probably wasn’t important anyway. Peter seems to have a compulsion for nonsequiturs.

A waving red-gloved hand inserts itself between his eyes and the screen. It’s upside-down. Tony looks up. And up.

“I’m just saying,” Peter says, hanging nonchalantly from the ceiling with a tablet and keyboard webbed into the corner in front of him, “You guys are like, living legends, you’re the big boys. But I never realized that two superheroes could spend more than 15 hours together without some kind of crises being involved.”

“There’s always some kind of crisis,” Tony mutters, turning back to his monitor.

“No, but, you guys hang out a lot outside of all that. You hang out without the masks. Jess says you guys have dinner together a lot whether the rest of us are here or not, that you go flying and stuff even when there’s not supervillainy happening, which, no judgment, flying is cool, I’m jealous.”

Tony sighs and leans back so he can look up without cricking his neck. Peter looks like a particularly strange piece of red-and-blue art, hanging like that.

“We’re friends,” Tony says, hoping that’ll be the end of the conversation. “We’ve been friends a long time.”

The mask wrinkles a bit, but Tony doesn't know what that's supposed to imply. “You guys touch each other a lot though.” Peter says.

Tony rolls his eyes. “This may shock you, but believe it or not, friends do that, too.”

“Yeah, but -” Peter waves his hands, somehow managing to maintain his balance, “A lot, a lot. Logan told everyone not to go into the gym when you guys were sparring. And Jess said Cap stared at you for like ten minutes at the last team meeting.”

“There’s this thing called paying attention when people are talking,” Tony tells him. “Steve does it very well. You could take notes.”

Peter cocks his head, which looks strange from Tony’s angle. Unbalanced.

“This was when we were listening to SHIELD try to defend themselves for twenty minutes.”

Tony shakes his head and hunches back over his desk, scrolling through more code.

“Do you have a point?” he asks, noting passages that could use future improvement. “We do have some work to do here.”

“My point is that Cap is putting some serious effort into spending time with you. I mean, Captain America, obviously who doesn’t want to spend time with him, but … You don’t find that weird?”

“Nope.” Not weird at all.

“Oh. Okay. I found the bug, by the way.”

"You did?" Tony peers at the screen again, and there it is. A single line of code Peter's highlighted a bright yellow.

"You should really let me pay you for this kind of thing, you know," Tony says, rewriting the mangled line.

"I'll take your money any time you want, but I'm not looking for a new job," Peter says.

"You sure?" Tony leans back to look up at him. "I heard you grumbling about supervillain timing the other day. Wouldn't it be better to work for an employer with a more flexible schedule?"

Peter hesitates.

"I should really finish out the school year," he says, but he's poking at the keyboard, not looking at Tony.

Tony smiles to himself. "That's, what, three weeks?"

"Five, including finals," Peter admits. "And you're right, it would be better if I worked here. Safer for Aunt May and MJ too.”

"I'll draw up a contract," Tony says. "You can sign it on Tuesday, right before your physical."

"That doesn't sound ominous at all," Peter complains.

Tony grins at him. "All Stark Industries employees get a physical upon hiring. It helps with pesky things like figuring out your benefits package."

Peter sighs, and Tony imagines he's rolling his eyes. "Yes, fine, you've got it all figured out. You and Cap can have your giant family treehouse. Can I go now?"

Tony shrugs. "I'm not stopping you."

"You've got all the windows booby trapped down here," Peter points out.

"And as this is a secure lab, they're staying that way," Tony tells him. "If you want out you'll have to use the door."

"Boring," Peter says, reaching down from the top of the doorframe to key in his code.

"My life is exciting enough without any more people getting their hands on my tech, thanks," Tony says, turning back to his computer. “Say hi to MJ for me.”

The door closes without a response from Peter, and Tony switches over to working on the Sentry problem. It's incredibly frustrating. The only public record of a superhero with that name and costume is a comic book. The SHIELD files list him as "Robert Reynolds," incarcerated for the murder of his wife, Lindy Reynolds. But according to everything Tony can find, Lindy Reynolds is still alive. She might even be looking for her husband.

So why was Sentry on the Raft in the first place?

He's trying to dig up more information on the comic book writers and artists when his phone starts ringing—which he'd ignore, but that's Rhodey's ringtone, and it could be urgent so he answers it.

"Rhodey."

"Hey, you busy or can you open this door for me?"

Tony glances up at the security feeds and yep, Rhodey's standing outside the door, waving at him.

"Yeah, sure." He types in the release code. "Should be unlocked now, come on in."

He walks to the door and lets Rhodey draw him into a hug, complete with back-thumping.

“You look good,” Rhodey smiles at him. “I hear you’re hosting superheroes again.”

“Yeah.” Tony grins, remembering Electro’s face when the new Avengers showed up to muck up his plans. “Guess I am.”

“Well, I for one am glad to hear it—you were getting a bit distant there for a while.”

Tony shrugs, uncomfortable.

“The company’s been taking a lot of work these days. Someone has to keep the lights on.”

Rhodey pats him on the shoulder again and moves past him.

"Any chance of a drink down here? Coffee? Coke?" he asks.

Tony waves him at the kitchenette in the corner and takes the opportunity to close most of his search screens before joining him.

"So how's SI doing?" Rhodey asks, setting out two glasses of ice.

"Good," Tony tells him, leaning against the counter. "We've got a few new projects in the works and the board is finally starting to talk about moving forward instead of selling out, which is a weight off my mind."

“Pepper told me about the KRONAS bid,” Rhodey stops pouring the soda to give him a look. “She said you got pretty twisted up over it.”

Tony looks away, studying the art on the walls. The webbed-in-place workstation Peter hadn't bothered to take down. He wishes he had a pen and paper. Or maybe a drink that came in a tumbler instead of a water glass.

“It worked out well enough." He shrugs. "I might have a little more pull with the board now too, given that Captain America went after them. Nothing quite like that for making investors nervous.”

Rhodey grins.

“And how is the Captain?” he asks.

“He’s good too,” Tony nods. “Better, anyway.”

“Better?”

Tony shrugs, his smile rueful. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell, with Steve. His mask’s even better than mine some days.”

“You guys are good though?”

“‘Course. And the team’s shaping up nicely.”

“No issues practically living with him again?”

Tony frowns at him. "Why would there be?"

Rhodey passes over one of the sodas, looking more pensive than curious. "Just seemed like you were both pretty messed up after the mansion got destroyed. And I know you weren't steady on your feet just a few months ago. Plus," he smiles over the rim of his glass, "There's always that old, lingering issue ..."

“Come on. You know better than that,” Tony scoffs. Boyhood crushes aside, Steve is a good friend. More than, but not in the way Rhodey's implying.

“I’m just saying, I saw shots online of you guys flying around in costume, and there weren’t any news reports of Avengers activity on a lot of those days.” Rhodey teases.

Tony draws circles in the condensation on his glass. “We’re good as teammates. Let it be. Besides, I think he got back with Sharon a few weeks ago anyway.”

Rhodey put his glass down, turning it on its coaster meditatively.

"That's not what I heard through the grapevine, but you'd be closer to the source than me."

Tony takes a sip of his Coke and doesn't think about the look on Steve's face when he got back from whatever mission SHIELD had called him out to, or the smile he'd turned on Tony when he agreed to re-form the Avengers.

"What brings you here?" he asks, and Rhodey lets the subject change pass without comment.

"Wanted to check in, see what you were up to," he deflects. Tony quirks an eyebrow at him.

"Ok, so I also wanted to talk about upgrades for the War Machine, but I want it on the record that I tried to have a normal conversation first."

"Normal is overrated," Tony tells him, dragging over a tablet and calling up the specs for Rhodey's suit. "What did you have in mind?"

***

Rhodey stays most of the afternoon, but even a full-on armor engineering session can't quite distract Tony from the fact that two different people apparently felt the need to talk to him about Steve today, and while that's not entirely out of the ordinary, it's not precisely normal either.

Maybe something's wrong. Maybe Steve's broadcasting some sort of signal that he needs help or support and Tony's just been too wrapped up in his own problems to notice.

He starts watching Steve pretty closely, starting with dinner with him and Rhodey that night, and what he sees worries him. Steve is clinging awfully tight to the team and the shield and Tony himself. Even more than usual, even for a friend living in the same house. He’s usually up when Tony shuffles into the kitchen for his morning coffee, and unless there’s a mission he’s almost always in the living room when Tony gets home from SI.

Maybe it’s the newness of the team, so close on the heels of losing the old one. Steve’s told him he considered the mansion his home, maybe more than Tony himself did. How out of place must he feel now, with a team but none of the familiar surroundings? He remembers Steve's face during that last meeting of the Avengers at the mansion. And he'd blamed Tony for breaking up the team, hadn't he? Even though everyone else had agreed or already made plans. How out of place must he have felt these past few months, with no mansion and no team at all? Tony hasn't exactly been the height of good health and sociability himself, but at least he's had the company to work on, the board to fight with and investors to woo (even if he very particularly hadn't felt like wooing anyone, possibly ever again, after Rumiko).

He wonders, briefly, if Peter is some kind of replacement for Clint, but no. Steve doesn’t work that way. But it’s been a long time since they had a team this young. And they’ve outlasted the youngest ones—the ones they’d mentored and taught most closely. Steve had poured hours and hours into teaching Clint, talking to him, trying to give him some kind of moral compass to live by. They both had. They’d done the same for Wanda, and in the end ... Tony pushes the thoughts away. If Steve needs some company, adjusting to this new team, Tony can provide it. He’ll snap back soon. Steve is nothing if not resilient.

But that doesn't mean Tony shouldn't make an effort.

It takes nearly a week before he’s able to actually act on his new resolution—Steve’s in meetings with SHIELD for a few days, and then Tony himself has investors to court in Morocco. He gets back to New York in the middle of a sunny Wednesday; there’s nothing more pressing in his schedule than a few reports he needs to finish for next Monday, and most of the Avengers are hanging out in the Tower, reading or watching TV.

Tony drops his bags in his room, changes into jeans and a less-travel-worn T-shirt and button-up sport shirt, and goes in search of Steve. He'll check the common areas first.

He gets himself a bottle of water from the kitchen fridge and wanders into the living room. Logan and Jess are reading on separate couches, and Luke and Jessica Jones are curled up together in the loveseat, sharing a tablet. Peter's nowhere to be seen. He’s probably at work.

"Has anyone seen Steve?" Tony asks the room at large. It can’t hurt, after all.

Logan shrugs, not looking up from his newspaper.

"I think he left a while ago," Jess says from the couch. "He wasn't at lunch."

Tony frowns. He regularly misses meals at the Tower, but as far as he knows Steve's been at lunch every afternoon they didn’t have a mission since they first talked about putting this team together, usually looking flushed and slightly sweaty from whatever morning workout he’s put himself through.

"You're sure?" he asks.

"Haven't seen him all day," Jess confirms.

"And nothing from SHIELD?" It's not inconceivable, after all, that Steve would've gotten a new mission so soon after the last.

"Nothing I know about. Sharon said they'd probably give him some time off. I guess whatever he was doing last week got a little out of hand."

Out of hand? Steve had seemed a bit on edge, but he’d said the mission went fine.

"Thanks," Tony says. Jess waves him off.

So. Steve might not be in the Tower. He’s tempted to just _call_ Steve, but as he’s making his way toward the gym (it’s always possible Steve just decided not to eat with the team, odd as that seems) he spots Jarvis in the hall, towels slung over his arm.

“Jarvis, is Steve in the gym?”

“Mr. Rogers is not currently in the Tower, Master Anthony. He said something about taking a few days of personal leave.”

“Oh.” That … doesn’t sound like Steve. Or, it does, but it sounds like Steve shutting himself off from the team, which is pretty much exactly what Tony was trying to avoid with this plan.

“He did wish for me to assure you that he will be available for Avengers-related business at any time. You need only call or contact his communicator.”

Of course.

“Thank you, Jarvis,” Tony says, trying to narrow down the places Steve might go for time alone. It’s a pretty short list.

“Of course,” Jarvis says, nodding to him as he passes. “Do let me know if there is anything else you or your teammates require.”

Tony nods, distracted, pulling out his phone. He’ll call Sharon. If Steve’s with her he’ll just wait until he comes back. If not, maybe she’ll be able to tell him why Steve might feel the need to get away from the team.

She picks up on the third ring, just as he’s started to think maybe he should’ve called SHIELD instead.

There’s a lot of background noise, but it sounds more like city noise than anything else.

“What do you want, Tony? I’m a little busy.”

“Is Steve with you?” he asks.

A pause, and the background gets a lot quieter.

“No,” Sharon says. “Why?”

“He told Jarvis he needed a few days away from the Tower. I’m trying to figure out if this a good thing or a bad thing.”

Sharon is suspiciously quiet in the face of his explanation. She knows what’s going on, whatever it is, he’s sure of it. And it’s probably not Steve actually being happy about anything.

“Sharon? Tell me what happened. Did you guys break up? Did something go wrong on that SHIELD mission he was working on?”

“We weren’t together,” Sharon says, her voice weirdly distant. “And it’s not that something went wrong. But it did stir up some stuff for him.”

Great. That’s not vague or frustrating at all.

“What kind of stuff?” he asks, heading for the elevator. If Steve’s not with Sharon he’s probably either in his apartment or running through Central Park somewhere. Either way, Tony’s going to need a car.

“Personal stuff, I can’t tell you about it; it’s SHIELD business and Steve’s business, not yours.”

Yeah. Useful.

“Sharon, I’m heading over to his apartment now. What can you tell me?”

She sighs.

“He’s taking a lot of unnecessary risks, and what happened isn’t likely to change that. Honestly, if I didn’t know it’d just make him worse I’d recommend SHIELD take him off the active roster until he can answer a psych eval honestly.”

Damn. That was worse than Tony had thought.

“Ok,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Thanks.”

“Just, keep an eye on him, ok?” Sharon says. “He needs all the friends he can get right now.”

“Yeah,” Tony says, “I will.”

“Good,” Sharon says, and hangs up.

“Yeah,” Tony sighs, stepping out of the elevator and flipping his phone shut. “Great.”

For a moment he thinks about calling for a chauffeur, but Happy’s still on family leave with Pepper and he doesn’t really want to deal with his replacement right now – Frank? Francis? F-something. He grabs the keys to the Bentley out of the lock box and punches in the door code for the garage. _Personal stuff. SHIELD stuff._ Something that fell into both the _personal_ and the _SHIELD_ categories that didn’t seem to have anything to do Sharon.

Tony’s not sure what to do with that. Maybe something to do with Fury? Maybe Steve’s doubting himself somehow?

He slips behind the wheel of the Bentley and heads for Brooklyn. He has a passcode (“For emergencies,” Steve had said, as if he’d ever not answered an alert in his life). Maybe he can help Steve out of whatever funk he’s fallen into.

***

“Steve?” Tony knocks on the door as he opens it. Evening light paints the hardwood floor orange in long swathes, and for a moment Tony thinks maybe Steve’s gone out after all.

He catches movement out of the corner of his eye and looks up. Steve’s on the rings, barefoot and shirtless, going through a routine Tony hasn’t watched him do since the early days at the mansion, when his nightmares were still a blink away from his memories.

Pull up to L-sit. Press to handstand. Inverted hang. Front roll to L-sit. The iron cross.

Tony shuts the door as quietly as he can and leans against one of the picture windows, watching. After a moment Steve flips himself around, gathers his momentum and front flips to the mat. He dives into a front handspring, vaults onto the horse and starts moving fast enough Tony can’t quite follow all the moves.

He’s pretty sure Steve knows he’s there, so he just waits, watching, as Steve tackles one routine after another, moving like he’s being chased.

Tony spends half a second thinking about offering to spar, but –no. Not when Steve’s like this. Not without the armor. He’d just get in the way of whatever Steve’s trying to do.

Steve finishes one more kata on the mat, then grabs a towel from his bench and wipes his face and chest. The waistband of his sweatpants is soaked through with sweat.

“Did you need something?” he asks, still not looking at Tony.

“Just looking for you,” Tony admits, keeping his voice low to match Steve’s mood.

“You could’ve called, if there was news.”

“It’s not about that.”

Steve picks up a water bottle, head bowed, his expression unreadable in the shadow of the window pane.

“What’s it about then?”

Tony bites the inside of his lip. But they’re a team; more than that, they’re _leading_ a team. And it’ll all fall apart again if they don’t have Steve.

“You know you can still talk to me, right? I’ll make time. You don’t have to do this,” he says.

Steve does look at him then, puzzled. “Do what?”

Tony waves at the loft, the gymnastic equipment.

“Retreat. Regroup on your own.”

Steve shrugs, one long shadow bisecting him from his left shoulder to the opposite hip.

“It works.”

“So, what?” Tony pushes his shoulders back, trying to ease some tension there. “Everyone can come to you with their problems, but you don’t go to anyone?”

Steve sets down the water bottle and starts wiping his hands on the towel, probably trying to remove the chalk.

“Nothing to talk about.”

Right. Maybe he should’ve just left Steve alone. It’s not as though Tony has an amazing track record of sharing his own problems.

“Ok,” he says, “just—” He shakes his head, shoves his hands in his pockets and turns for the door. “Let me know if you want to grab a meal or play some basketball. I’ve got some time between now and Monday if you want to hang out.”

He’s halfway to the door when Steve says his name. He turns to look back.

Steve’s got his head bowed, his hands clenched tight in the white towel, twisting it.

He shakes his head, jerks his shoulders straight and his chin up.

“I’ve got food in the fridge,” he offers. Tony… wasn’t expecting that. Maybe Steve really _does_ need someone to talk to.

“Ok,” he says, taking his hands out of his pockets. “I could use a snack. Even flying first class, airline food never has been my first choice.”

Steve nods. “I’ll just get cleaned up,” he says, and disappears further into the loft.

Tony wanders after him, passing the workout area and the couch-framed living area on his way to the kitchen. He can hear the shower start somewhere ahead of him. The open floor plan isn’t the kind of thing he’d go for, but it seems to work for Steve.

He digs his travel notebook and a pen out of his pocket, gets himself a glass of water and perches on a stool at the breakfast bar. He needs to revamp the armor HUD – incorporate the handful of verbal commands remaining into something faster.

He’s sketching out changes to the visual interface when Steve reappears from behind the bookcase that separates his sleeping area from the rest of the room. He’s changed the sweats for jeans, and his hair’s damp, the collar of his t-shirt sticking to his skin a little.

“I’ve got sandwich stuff or eggs,” Steve says, getting his own glass of water.

Tony waves vaguely. “Whatever’s fine, Steve.”

He watches Steve pull bread, lunchmeat, lettuce, tomatoes and condiments out of the fridge and plates out of a cupboard and thinks about asking what happened. What’s going on with SHIELD that’s got him shutting people out. But Steve tends to clam up or get combative when people ask him leading questions he doesn’t want to answer.

“Heard from Sam lately?” he asks instead.

“Not since a few weeks after we went after the Skull together,” Steve says, spreading mustard on a slice of bread. “I think he’s busy with the parts of his life that don’t involve the mask.”

Tony nods. He’d been a little surprised Sam had been willing to suit up to go after the Skull in the first place, the way he’d been talking when the Avengers split up, but maybe it was because it had been Steve asking. And Falcon had his own history with Red Skull and the Cube.

"Are you going to tell the world you're still Iron Man?" Steve asks, piling turkey on the sandwiches.

Tony grimaces. He’s been asking himself that a lot lately.

"I'm putting it off," he admits. "It puts too many people at risk. But I'll probably have to, at some point."

“And we need to tell the press about the team, too,” Steve says, frowning down at the lettuce and tomatoes. Tony hands him the cutting board that’s drying on the bar.

“Yeah,” Tony sighs, “I’d suggest getting Jessica Jones to write the story, but Jameson would probably tear us down for bias and refuse to print it.”

“Maybe we should just get Jameson to write the story,” Steve says, slicing a tomato thinly.

Tony snorts.

“Peter’s not going to like that plan.”

Steve shrugs and slides a plate with a finished sandwich on it toward Tony. “Spider-Man’s an Avenger now. That should count for something.”

“Hmm.” Tony takes a bite of his sandwich, and chews slowly, thinking.

He swallows.

“Maybe we can negotiate something. Avengers PR is still a little finicky, but exclusive access should be enough of a lure …” He trails off, considering. “I’d need to come forward as Iron Man first. That’ll make Hill happy, at least.”

Steve’s already halfway through his own sandwich, but he gives Tony a quizzical look as he chews.

“She’s been going on about accountability lately,” Tony tells him. “I’m surprised you haven’t gotten roped in on that more, but I guess SHIELD’s still pretty invested in the Captain America image.”

Steve starts making himself a second sandwich.

“What do you mean?” he asks, slicing more tomato.

“She’s asking questions like 'When does the Hulk become the fault of the superhero community, because we’re not willing to go far enough?'”

Steve gives him an incredulous look over the cutting board.

“That’s ridiculous,” he says.

Tony spreads his hands wide, surrendering the argument. “I know, that’s what I said. Norman Osborn’s insane, it’s not Spider-Man’s fault he breaks out of prison and goes on a rampage.”

“She said that?”

“She did.” Tony sighs. “Can you imagine what would happen if one of us did kill a villain? The press would turn on us so fast we’d have to leave the atmosphere to ever do our jobs again.”

Steve shakes his head. “And then there wouldn’t be anyone left to do it.”

Tony nods and takes a few more bites of his sandwich. He could just leave it there. He probably _should_ just leave it there. But if they’re taking the team to the press, Steve should have all the information.

This is not the conversation he’d thought they’d be having. He bites his lip.

“It’s not just SHIELD,” he says.

“Oh?”

Tony picks at his crusts and doesn’t meet Steve’s eyes.

“This idea is in Washington. Public opinion is starting to turn.”

He can see Steve shifting his weight out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t take his gaze off his plate.

“That’s ridiculous. We do good work. We serve the public,” Steve says.

Tony think about property damage figures, civilian casualties, the times an Avenger has gone off the rails and done things they might not be proud of. Neither he nor Steve is innocent of that.

“Public sentiment says there are too many superheroes in New York,” he says, slumping on his stool. “The mayor even said something about it last week. I can’t sell most of the office space in the Tower, because people believe it’ll be attacked by aliens or Doom or the next science-experiment gone wrong. Just because we’re here. Us and the Baxter building.”

“That’s not—”

Whatever Steve’s going to say gets interrupted by shrill sirens from Tony’s jeans pocket, an echo bouncing off the walls from somewhere else in the apartment. He digs out his Avengers card.

"What is it?" Steve asks, already moving back to his bedroom area, presumably to grab his gear.

"Alert,” Tony tells him. “Two, actually. Coast guard in Boothbay harbor and local law enforcement in Brownsville. Mister Fear has taken over a small ship and the Enforcers may be hosting some kind of meet-up."

He changes channels on the communicator and calls for the armor. Flying will be faster than trying to weave through traffic.

"Just what we need." Steve reappears dressed in red and blue, stepping into his boots, his gloves hanging from his belt. "Ok. We'll split the team. You take Spider-Woman and Power Man to the harbor, I'll take Wolverine and Spider-Man."

Tony nods. Who knows, Spider-Woman might even be able to counteract Mister Fear’s gases with her pheromones.

"I'll call Carol and Rhodey on the way out, see if we can at least get them on standby," he says.

"Sounds good." Steve grabs the shield from the living room and leads the way up to the roof.

The stairs are a little cramped and only dimly lit, but Steve moves confidently so Tony stays on his heels. The armor’s waiting for them—an older model that’s going to be annoying to fly with, but without the undersuit Tony doesn’t have many other options.

He should really know by now that this kind of thing always happens.

He steps into the suit and Steve pulls up his cowl and slings an arm around his shoulders. The flight back to the Tower is tense, both of them focused on coordinating the two teams. When they touch down Steve claps a hand on Tony’s shoulder.

"Keep your comms open,” he says, “I want to know what's going on on your end."

Tony nods. “You too, Cap. Be careful."

Steve waves at him and heads for the waiting quinjet.

"We'll get it done, Shellhead. They're ready."

***

The team _is_ ready, but there are some thing you just can’t plan for and ungrateful hostages is one of them. Tony, Jess and Luke manage to get the anxious huddle of captured tourists out of Mister Fear’s grasp before any permanent damage can be done to them, and the Coast Guard are happy to take the villain and his thugs off their hands for delivery to SHIELD.

Steve, Peter and Logan aren’t quite so lucky, and while they still manage to catch Fancy Dan and Hammer Harrison, the mutant the Enforcers were trying to intimidate into helping them turns out to want nothing to do with the Avengers either, and hits Steve in the chest with some kind of energy beam that’s solid enough to bruise his ribs.

“You should get that checked out,” Tony says when Spider-Man tells him what happened, but Steve just shakes his head.

“They’re not broken, there’s nothing to be done about it. I’ll be fine.”

He’s holding his shoulders stiff, his stride slow and careful.

Tony’s going to have to do something about that. He takes the armor down to the lab, does a quick scan to make sure there’s no pheromone residue sticking to it, and grabs a first aid kit. Then he heads for Steve’s room.

“It’s open,” Steve says when he knocks, and when Tony opens the door he finds Steve standing by the bed, looking oddly half-dressed in his mail and pants and boots without his gloves or cowl.

“You can’t get the rest of it off, can you?” Tony asks. Steve glares at him, but he just steps inside the room and closes the door.

“Sit down,” he says, gesturing at the bed with the first aid kit. “Come on,” he says when Steve hesitates. “I’ve bruised enough ribs, I know what it feels like. Let me help.”

Steve sits down slowly, wincing a little, and Tony drops the kit on the bed.

“How high can you lift your arms?” he asks.

Steve demonstrates. His right arm can still go fairly high, but the left can’t even make it to shoulder level before he’s wincing.

Tony blows out a long breath. Ok. He steps up between Steve’s legs and reaches around his good arm to get at the edge of the mail shirt.

“This is a serious design oversight in your uniform,” he grunts as he pulls up the shirt, doing his best to keep the weight in his hands instead on Steve’s shoulders. “We should really overhaul it. Add some zippers or Velcro or something.”

“You don’t put zippers in mail, Tony,” Steve says, his voice tight.

“Well, maybe it’s time someone did then,” Tony gathers the slack weight in both hands. “Pull your good arm through.”

Steve does, and Tony tugs the shirt over Steve’s head, lunging to catch the swinging edge before it hits Steve’s side.

“It doesn’t need fixing, Tony,” Steve insists as Tony slides the second sleeve off Steve’s wrist and steps back.

The bruising on Steve’s left side is dark, the outline of an overlarge open hand clearly visible. Tony whistles.

“That’s some serious hitting power.”

Steve snorts. “She certainly wasn’t holding back.”

“Do you want a sling? An ice pack?”

Steve shakes his head. “Just wrap them.”

 _You should get the swelling down, try to rest,_ Tony doesn’t say. Steve wouldn’t listen anyway. He digs through the kit for an Ace bandage without comment.

Steve is very still as Tony wraps the bandage over his ribs. He moves at all the right times and breathes deeply enough that the binding won’t constrict him too much, but there’s something wrong, Tony’s sure of it. His shoulders are too stiff, every shift in weight stilted somehow. He’s closed his eyes, furrowed his brow and pressed his lips into a thin line.

Usually (and how strange are their lives, that tending Steve’s injuries have become something he has a “usual” context for?), Steve’s brusque, but relaxed when he’s getting an injury seen to. He’ll talk, maybe joke a little. If it’s a teammate helping him he might talk about what happened, and how they might be able to prevent it next time (there’s always a next time).

Maybe confronting him at his apartment was a step too far. Steve’s always been protective of his space, always needed time to work things out, but at least before he’d been willing to let his teammates see it sometimes. He’d even talked to Tony occasionally, especially in those early days, with Jan and Hank and Thor.

They’ve lost far too many friends in far too short a time.

Tony pushes that thought to the back of his mind and tacks down the end of the bandage. There are scratches on Steve’s head, dried blood in his hair, so Tony searches through the kit for some clean-wipes and sets to work on that next, dabbing carefully so he doesn't reopen the scabs. Steve remains silent. Stoic even.

Tony wipes the rest of the blood off his forehead and steps away to find a trash can. Steve clearly wants his space. And maybe that’s a good thing.

“Tony,” Steve says behind him. He turns around, waits. Steve’s face still looks pinched.

“Something else?” Tony asks, waving at the first aid kit.

“No, no, it’s -” Steve hesitates, then nods to himself. “We should do something later. Not sparring, obviously.” He gestures vaguely at his ribs, smiling a little now, and something under Tony’s sternum relaxes. Okay. Maybe they aren’t so poorly off as he thought.

“Dinner, maybe?” he asks.

“I was thinking more like flying,” Steve admits.

“I’m not taking you flying with bruised ribs, Steve.”

“Dinner then,” Steve agrees. “But here, alright?”

“Sure.” Tony doesn't much feel like going out, either. TV and take-out it is. "Give me an hour or two to get some work done on the armor."

"Of course."

***

Steve’s code flashes up on Tony’s screen, and he swivels the chair around to see the man himself coming through the lab door, two pizzas and a paper bag balanced on one hand and a bottle of Coke in the other.

Oops. Tony’s checks the time and—yeah. He was supposed to be upstairs twenty minutes ago.

He offers Steve a sheepish smile. “Sorry.” He gestures at the gauntlet resting on his worktable. “Guess I got a little caught up in things.”

Steve shrugs, wincing a little. Tony remembers how that feels.

“I figured it was something like that. Hope you don’t mind my interrupting …?”

“No, no.” Tony waves his hands to beckon Steve further into the room, then realizes the table is covered in pieces of metal and bits of wiring, and even the kitchenette countertop is draped in blueprints. “Erm. We probably shouldn’t eat here.”

“I was hoping I could tempt you up to the roof, actually. Or the hanger at least.”

Tony points a finger at him. “Still not taking you flying till you heal up a bit.”

“Go wash your hands, Tony.” Steve says, ignoring him, which, ok, yes, Tony does have grease all over his hands so he just makes a face at Steve and heads for the sink.

Hands clean, he reaches for the pizzas. “Let me carry something.”

“I’m bruised, Tony, not an invalid,” Steve protests.

Tony just raises his eyebrows and Steve hands over the pizzas and paper bag with a huff.

“I’m keeping the soda,” he says, mulish as Tony locks down the lab and calls the elevator.

“Sure thing, Cap. Whatever you want.”

Steve doesn’t even manage to keep his frown until the elevator doors close, which Tony counts as a victory.

When the doors reopen, the landing deck is deserted. Steve chooses a spot under the faint glow of stars through the observation bubble. Tony sits beside him, wishing for a moment he’d thought to grab a blanket or something. The concrete floor isn’t exactly comfortable.

“Sure you don’t want a distraction?” Tony asks, opening up the pizza boxes. “I bet we could find a room with a TV the others haven’t discovered yet.”

“I’m good,” Steve says, leaning back to look at the night sky through the clear glass. “Just wanted to spend some time away.”

He looks content, a small smile on his lips, his legs stretched out and his shoulders loose.

Tony takes a bite of pizza and chews thoughtfully. Maybe an apology is in order.

“You know, I didn’t mean to imply you couldn’t go back to your apartment if you needed space,” Tony says, staring at the swirls of concrete in the floor and tracing circuits in his mind’s eye. “I only meant to say I wish you’d let us help, sometimes. I know—” he hesitated. “Well, there are lots of things I trust you with, and you’re good at listening to my whining. I guess I just want you to know that I’m here, if you need someone to listen.”

"Thanks," Steve's smile widens. "That means a lot, Tony."

Tony shrugs, looks up at the stars. Not that there are many to see in Manhattan, even this high up, but still. He's got them memorized anyway.

"It's not a big deal."

He means to wait, see if there's anything Steve wants to talk about, but he's never really been comfortable with silence.

“I’ve been thinking about Clint a lot lately. And Wanda.” Tony huffs a laugh, but it’s not funny. “Feels like I haven’t thought about much else besides that day for months, sometimes. The company, maybe. Stock numbers. It’s been good, having a team again. Better things to think about.”

He pulls pepperoni off his slice, trying to decide whether he should just leave it there. But maybe if he opens up a little, Steve will realize he can talk about whatever it is that’s bothering _him_ , too.

“I keep having dreams about it,” he admits, not looking at Steve. “About Wanda, and Clint and Vision.”

He doesn’t mention Rumiko. He’s not - he might never be ready to talk about Rumiko, even to Steve.

“I think about them,” Steve says simply. He reaches for his own slice of pizza. “I can’t think of anything else we could’ve done.”

Tony snorts. “There’s plenty. One of us should have noticed Wanda was getting shaky. She was right next to me at the UN. We saw her every day.”

He’s not going to mention how close Wanda and Steve had been getting, the handful of months before everything went to hell. How much losing her like that must have hurt Steve, on top of everything else.

“She wasn’t in control,” Steve says. “Strange said she may not even have known what she was doing.”

“We should’ve kept in better contact with him too.”

There are lots of things they should have done. Lots of things _Tony_ should have done.

“We had no way to know, Tony. It’s not your fault,” Steve tells him.

Tony pulls two plastic cups out of the sack and twists the cap off the bottle of Coke.

“Sure it isn’t,” he says, pouring soda for them both.

Steve takes one of the cups, gives him an intent look over the rim.

“Do you blame Jan?” he asks.

“No, of course not.” What kind of question is that? How could Jan possibly be to blame?

“Even though she thinks it might’ve been something she said that set Wanda off?” Steve says. “Even though she was Chair?”

Tony shakes his head.

“It wasn’t—I should’ve figured it out.”

Steve just looks at him, his eyes a dark, deep blue in the glow from the window.

“Did Jan blame you?” he asks.

Tony shakes his head again, half denial, half dismissal of the argument.

“Jan’s been an Avenger just as long as you have. You don’t trust her word?”

“It’s not that,” Tony says.

“Then what is it, Tony?”

"Just ..." He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before opening them. "There has to have been some way to make it right."

"Why? Because then you could've fixed it?” Steve sits up, more directly in Tony’s line of sight. “That's not your job, Tony."

Tony doesn't bother replying to that, just rips crust off his pizza, but after a moment Steve leans over so they're eye to eye.

"You don't have to fix everything, Tony. None of the Avengers blames you for what happened to Wanda. I certainly don't. And if you find someone who does, you can send them to me and I'll set them right."

Steve looks so earnest. So sure. It’s been a long time since Tony had that kind of conviction.

He ducks his head.

"Thanks, Cap."

Steve grins at him.

"What are friends for?"


	4. B.O.L.T.O.P.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> B.O.L.T.O.P. - Better on Lips than On Paper

Luke does a combat sim on the Purple Man, and it's brutal even by Steve’s standards. Steve is the first one to get "taken over" (Luke says he planned it that way for "greatest shock value"), and he spends almost half an hour swinging the holographic shield at his teammates before Spider-Man and Spider-Woman get taken over too.

Power Man and Iron Man come up with some interesting applications for dual-impenetrability plus flight powers, but Power Man eventually falls when the distraction of Spider-Woman's pheromones lets Steve get in a good strike, and Peter gums up Iron Man’s boot jets faster than the repulsors can cut through his webbing.

So then it's just Iron Man, hopping awkwardly his sticky boots and trying keep them at bay with force fields and energy blasts. But he can't hold out forever. Not when Steve knows him so well, knows his techniques, and in the end Steve resorts to plain old hand to hand and pins Iron Man's arms long enough for Spider-Man to web him into place.

The simulation lifts, obstacles sliding back into the floors and wall, the holoshield flickering off. Steve slides the power-emulation wristbands off his arms and goes to help Luke to his feet. Jess is shaking out her arms and running her hands through her hair (Tony doesn't really have an elegant way to simulate the pheromones yet so they've had to make do with a helmet that the room recognizes as producing varying levels of vibrations in the air), and Tony's ... still webbed in place, tugging ineffectually at his bonds and cursing at Peter.

"Did you have to use real webbing?" he saying as Peter kinda dances around him, just out of Tony's—admittedly rather limited at the moment—reach.

"So I got a little carried away," Peter says, poking one of the webs. It doesn't move.

"A little?" Tony's voice through the armor doesn't have nearly as much inflection as his normal voice but Steve's willing to bet he's at his most sarcastic. "Do you have any idea how long it's going to take me to clean this armor now? The boots alone are going to take at least a week!"

"It won't take that long," Peter says, "Besides, I can help you."

"No, you've helped enough—"

"Alright, that's enough," Steve steps between them. He looks between Spider-Man's wide-eyed mask and Iron Man's golden faceplate. "We're all tired, we could all use a break. We'll start again tomorrow." He nods at Luke. "I know Power Man's got some more scenarios in the works, and Spider-Man, I'm expecting your reports on Vermin and Razor-Fist by the end of the week. For now, I think we've gotten some good practice. Everyone get some rest."

Tony shakes his head, but he holds his tongue until the others have left the room.

"Help me get the helmet off," he says, once the doors are closed. Steve runs his fingers under the edge of the faceplate until he finds the manual catch. The helmet comes off a little awkwardly, but once it's fully cleared his skull Tony rolls his neck and tips his head back, eyes closed.

Steve can see beads of sweat in his hair, rolling down his neck.

He has the sudden urge to lick them off, to press his nose into the hollow behind Tony's ear and breathe him in. He wants to run his hands through Tony's hair until it sticks up the way he's seen it some mornings when Tony's been spending all his time in the lab. Wants to invite him sparring and pin him to the mats and kiss him breathless.

He keeps his hands on the helmet, tense under his gloves, tries to tell himself that the smile Tony turns on him isn't really an open invitation. Tony is his best friend, and he's wearing a full suit of armor. Steve's pretty sure he shouldn't be finding this quite so erotic. He's just tired, and probably needs to get out of the Tower more often. He'll help Tony out of Peter's webs, help him carry the armor down to the lab and excuse himself for the evening. Tony probably won't even notice, as focused as he'll be on cleaning up the suit.

Then he'll go to his rooms, get out of the uniform, take a shower, and if he still feels like this maybe he'll head down to the gym alone. Work out some energy so that the next time he sees Tony he can meet his eyes as a friend without any ulterior motives.

There are a series of subtle clicks and Tony grimaces, yanking his arm out of his left gauntlet. The gauntlet stays in place as he flexes his hand.

"I'm confiscating Spider-Man's webslingers next time," Tony says, pushing at the manual lock on his right shoulder pauldron. "This is ridiculous."

Steve pins the helmet under his arm and moves to help, flipping the handful of locks that were too webbed to respond to the automatic command.

"You can't fault his strategy," he points out as Tony wiggles out of the right gauntlet and sets to work on the chest plate.

"Oh sure, side with him, we'll see how you feel when you have to ride along on Model 28 next time we're called out."

Steve yanks the chest plate out of the webbing and Tony windmills his arms a bit.

"I don't mind 28," Steve tells him.

Tony wrinkles his nose. "It's not as fast, and the cornering is sloppy. Come back over here, I can't get enough leverage to get out of the boots.”

Steve steps obligingly closer and Tony slings his arm over his shoulders, leaning into him as he tries to get his legs free.

"Do you need me to lift you up, or -"

"No, no, I got it," Tony insists, but Steve still ends up having to support most of his weight and drag him backwards before he can get his feet all the way out.

They stare at the bits of armor, disconnected, but still suspended by webs.

"How long did he say that stuff lasts?" Tony asks, still hanging onto Steve's neck. He smells like sweat and metal, and if he turned his head he’d be at perfect kissing distance.

“About an hour," Steve says, setting him solidly on the ground again. Letting go before he does something about the increasingly wild images crossing his mind.

Tony shakes his head. "Guess I'll just have to wait it out then." He puts his hands on his hips, his stance wide. "Still, we'll have to do that sim again. Apparently we don't have nearly enough practice against mind control."

Steve catches himself staring at the way the gold undersuit stretches over Tony's chest and arms and blinks a few times.

Right. Definitely shower first. He clears his throat.

"I'll ask Logan if he has any ideas," he says, his mouth dry. Tony gives him a look.

"You alright, Cap?" he asks, and Steve nods and turns for the door.

"Yeah, just need some rest. I'll see you later."

"Take care of yourself Steve. We need you," Tony says from behind him.

"Yeah," Steve says, barely paying attention to what he's saying anymore. "You too."

Maybe he'll end up drawing Tony's lips and eyes and hands, filling page after page with Tony, with every part he wants to touch and kiss and caress, all the ways he wants to shower affection and _need_ over this man, and there are coming to be rather a lot of them. There are worse ways he could spend the evening.

***

It's only a few days later that he finds himself in close quarters with Tony again—just research, completely innocent. But they're in the conference room, going over crime reports and matching villain sightings against the Avengers database, and it feels like every third thought Steve has is about kissing Tony. Just leaning a little closer the next time Tony asks his opinion and—well it never really gets further than that before he cuts off the image. His _lips_ are tingling, and every time he snaps back to reality it takes a little more effort.

"All right, Cap?" Tony asks, and Steve has to jerk his eyes to the side to stop staring at Tony's lips.

"Fine," he says.

Tony doesn't look like he believes him, but he turns back to the map display without comment.

"Well, at this point our best bet is just to wait and train." Tony grimaces. "Without more data there's really nothing we can do until an alert goes out."

"We'll get it done," Steve tells him, fiddling with his pen. He's wasted a few pages in his notebook already, losing track of the list he was making and starting over in an attempt to force himself to focus on the task at hand.

"I know we will, I just hate the waiting." Tony rolls his neck and stretches his arms out in front of him, fingers linked and the sleeves of his T-shirt riding up over his biceps.

"Want to take a break, get a burger or something?" he asks.

"Might as well," Steve agrees before he thinks. But maybe it's a good thing. Maybe he'll find a good moment to bring up the idea that they could be—well, even more to each other than they already are. And time hanging out as friends would be infinitely better for that than time they're spending on Avengers business. It's not a team thing, and Steve wants to be sure there's no confusion over that.

"Great!" The grin Tony turns on him is open and uncomplicated, and Steve can't help but smile back because _this_ , this friendship, the simple joy of spending time together without worrying about the team or the safety of the world, that's what he wants most. He just wants _more_ of it now. He puts the pen and notebook in his jacket pocket and stands. They could get food to go, find somewhere a little less public to eat, he muses, following Tony out of the room.

"Almost forgot," Tony turns in the doorway and he's _too close, too close, what were you thinking, Steve_ —except that rationally Steve knows they always walk together like this, there's nothing different from any other day except that he's having trouble separating _Tony, Iron Man, friend, Avenger_ from _step inside your space and put my hands on your hips under your shirt and my lips to the bit of clavicle your collar doesn't cover-_

Steve's pretty sure he hasn't actually moved at all, or said anything, but Tony looks a bit wide-eyed and he's gesturing vaguely.

"to ... turn off the ... display," he's saying, his voice getting fainter with each word until he's just staring at Steve without saying anything at all and Steve _still hasn't moved to let him through_.

Steve can hear his own breath in his ears and the way he leans into Tony feels inevitable, like the pull of the tide in his bones. And Tony doesn't step back - if anything he shifts a little closer, his shoulders square with Steve's own, and if there's a way to look up through your eyelashes at someone who's basically your same height, Steve's pretty sure Tony's doing it.

"Tony," Steve says, almost a whisper even in his own ears, "I-"

The Tower alarms cut through anything else he might've said, and the moment's gone. He looks ups at the alarm display over the table and by the time he looks back Tony's out of arms reach and not looking at him.

"Two of the Wrecking Crew just triggered a Stark Industries alert—looks like they tried to break into a SI warehouse outside Bridgeport."

Steve frowns. Tony makes a big target, but he's not the sort the Wrecking Crew usually go for. But it's Avengers business, and there'll be time to unravel the whys after Piledriver and Bulldozer are back behind bars.

***

The swell of hope in his chest and thrill under his skin stay with him, a distraction even when he should be directing all his concentration on slamming the shield into Bulldozer’s shoulder—not that he’s accomplishing much there, given the villain’s general durability, but it does provide an opening for the others to exploit. Spider-Woman and Iron Man manage to get in some attacks that aren’t as easily ignored, and it doesn’t take long before both Bulldozer and Piledriver are in power-dampening cuffs, awaiting SHIELD pick-up. Spider-Man webs the restraints, just in case, and Steve busies himself with the SHIELD report, trying to keep his attention on something other than the fact that Tony’s only a few feet away.

He hasn’t been planning to do anything about it, precisely, but it’s not as though he’s completely unable to process his own emotions. He’s spent more time drawing Tony in the last few weeks than the months before that combined—and it’s only Tony, these days. There’s the occasional portrait with Peter, Carol, or sometimes Rhodey, but mostly he draws Tony alone, working on the armor in a t-shirt with grease smeared on his nose or doing SI paperwork on a tablet in one of his impeccable suits. Tony staring down a problem, Tony laughing at a movie, Tony smiling.

He spends far too much time staring at Tony, rendered on paper. It can’t be healthy.

So when Tony takes off his helmet after their return to the Tower, Steve’s not really surprised to find himself studying the curve of his face. Watching him lean against the wall for a moment , head tilted back and neck bared, all his edges limned in reflected sunlight.

Tony’s always been a sexual being, but the fact that Steve’s finding just seeing his neck and face erotic says a lot more about Steve than it does about Tony. He’s seen this view before, after all, and while he can’t say it never stirred him up like this, he never really thought about doing anything about it before the last few weeks.There was always someone else, for him or for Tony or both, and … well, maybe there was something to be said for absence making the heart grow longer. When the Avengers split up, beyond the hurt of losing the mansion and the family he’d built there, beyond the dull ache of Wanda’s betrayal, it was Tony he’d missed most. The man who’d shown him the future, given him something to look forward to, and never complained when that turned into more of a lifetime commitment than a one-time deal.

And Tony’s missed him too, he’s pretty sure. The way he’d offered up the Tower for the Avengers pretty much at the drop of a hat, that he just had the quinjet sitting around, waiting. Doing his work in the common areas instead of his room or the lab. Dragging Steve around galas and out for food—more than that, just spending the _time_ , time Steve knows Tony doesn’t always have. He even shows up for breakfast a few days a week.

They're the only ones in the hanger now; the others are all in their rooms or headed back to their own apartments, scrubbing off the day and getting some well-earned rest.

That moment, right before the alert came through—something almost happened there. Something important.

He doesn't want to walk away from that.

Tony has his eyes closed, his head leaning back against the wall. In the armor he’s a few inches taller than Steve, but that’s not really a challenge for this. Steve puts his gloved hand to Tony’s neck, traces a line up to his ear and meets Tony’s eyes as he opens them.

“Steve?” he asks.

Steve rubs his thumb against Tony’s jaw, red leather against dark stubble, watches his throat work, the way his eyes stay firmly on Steve’s face. He doesn’t move at all as Steve leans closer.

“If this isn’t something you want, now’s the time to say so,” Steve says. His voice is low and scratchy in his own ears.

He holds his breath, waiting, and Tony leans into him, close enough that Steve can feel his breath against his face.

He shuts his eyes and presses his forehead to Tony's, takes a deep breath. Tilts his head, his nose sliding against Tony's cheek, and brings their mouths together. Just, barely.

And then Tony tilts his chin and slides his lips against Steve's and it's like he loses track of his extremities. Everything lower than his heart might as well not exist because he feels like he's floating, only held in place by the sparks of light and warmth where he's touching Tony.

Their noses bump and Tony huffs a laugh into Steve's mouth and draws back. When Steve opens his eyes Tony's smiling softly at him, just a touch unbelieving, his eyes a little wide.

He reaches out and tugs on the back of Steve's cowl, peeling it off, his gaze flicking over Steve's face.

"Tell me you mean this," Tony whispers, and Steve can feel armored fingers curling at the base of his neck. "There weren't any mind-altering drugs in the air out there today, were there? Do we need to get you checked out?"

Steve grins at him. "It's just me here, Tony. No drugs, no alien pollen, no mind control. Trust me."

Tony's still watching him warily, even if his hands are clenched in Steve's mail, so Steve leans in again, until he can feel Tony's breath on his lips.

"I've been thinking about this for a while," he admits, brushing his lips against Tony's softly. "Just waiting for the right moment."

He licks Tony's bottom lip, tentative, and smiles when Tony's breath hitches. He's more sure this time, kissing Tony with a slow, steady press of lips and tongue, as languorous and deliberate as he can manage.

This time, when Steve pulls away Tony's eyes are glassy, his lips red and swollen. He's seen a multitude of expressions cross Tony's face over the years, but this is a new one, one he's never glimpsed and never drawn and there's a thrill in that, a thrum of nerves and joy under his skin that threatens to bubble out of him.

"Armor command: Disassemble" Tony says, his voice rasping and low, and as the red and gold pieces fall away Steve presses in closer, nudges his knee between Tony's thighs and leans into him until they're pressed chest to chest and he can dip his head to lick and suck at the point where the gold undersuit stops on Tony's neck.

"Oh God," Tony breathes against his ear. "Steve-"

He pushes at Steve's shoulders and Steve leans back reluctantly, dragging his teeth over Tony's skin as he goes. He should stop, really they should talk about this, probably, but-

Tony wraps his hands around Steve's head and pulls him back in, and Steve can feel Tony's teeth against his lips and Tony's tongue in his mouth and it's _glorious_.

Tony slides to the right and Steve follows him, chasing his lips, his neck, any skin he can reach, his whole body singing with heat and want and glee.

"Christ, Steve," Tony muttered. "Just let me—"

There's a click and Tony stumbles backward into a dim space and Steve stumbles with him, reaching for the door and kicking it shut behind him.

"How do I get this thing off you?" he asks, pulling at the golden mix of metal and fabric covering Tony's body.

"Zippers," Tony says, panting, and Steve gives up on finding them while he still has his gloves on and steps back to pull them off. He yanks his mail up over his head for good measure.

His eyes have just about adjusted to the low light, and as he folds the mail onto a nearby shelf he can see Tony watching him, dark eyes framed by dark lashes, following his movements. He steps back in and runs his hands over Tony's chest, finds two tiny zippers and tugs at them until the undersuit peels away and he can kiss the dip between Tony's collar bones.

“Ok, ok, wait this is,” Tony laughs, breathless, “this is pretty fast. I need—” He closes his eyes and takes big, gulping breaths of air. Steve moves his hands to the slightly-more-neutral zone of Tony’s still-covered sides and hopes this isn’t Tony changing his mind.

"You said you'd been thinking about this," Tony starts, and Steve nods and leans back slightly to look him in the eyes. "How, ah," Tony licks his lips, "how long exactly? Have you been trying to, what was it? 'Find the right moment?'"

"Almost since you agreed to re-form the Avengers," Steve admits.

Tony shakes his head. "Why didn't you _say_ anything?"

Steve just gives him a look, because given Tony's responses, Steve's not alone in keeping his silence.

"Ok, fair point," Tony grins, a little too wide to be anything but _goofy_. "Just. Unexpected. Really, really unexpected. But good. Definitely good."

"Good." Steve's feeling pretty goofy himself, really. "We should ... go get burgers or something," he says because he needs to say _something_ that isn't _so, can I kiss you again?_ Because he's not only interested in Tony physically, he's _not_.

"Yeah, burgers, great," Tony nods, pressing his hands against Steve's chest. His fingertips trace over Steve’s ribs. "That sounds great," he says against Steve's mouth, his mustache and beard brushing Steve's lips. It tickles and stings at the same time but Steve is so far from caring he barely even thinks about it past adjusting the angle slightly and pressing closer, sliding his hands over Tony's shoulders and up into his hair and devoting himself to nothing more complicated than the feel of Tony's lips against his and the taste of Tony's mouth on his tongue. He loses time that way, minutes fading into one another, and after a while he just presses his forehead to Tony's and breathes with him. They'll have to move soon, put on their uniforms and get back to work, in some form or another. But for now they have this, whatever it turns out to be, and Steve's willing to let it stretch as long as possible.

***

Steve feels like he’s in freefall, so high over the ground he can’t see anything but sky.

It's ridiculous how giddy he is, but it's true. Every time Tony enters a room, every time Steve catches his eye or claps him on the shoulder or stands within three feet of him he feels a little electric tingle over his scalp and down his spine. It's like his lungs won't quite expand, his muscles react a touch too slowly. It's been ages since he's felt like this.

He just wants to touch Tony. All the time.

It’s becoming a bit of a problem, really, because Tony almost always has some sort of armor on—if he isn't wearing the suit he’s wearing "Stark Industries CEO" on his lapel, or "Avengers team leader" on his chest. It isn't like Tony’s suddenly busier than he has been—he's always been busy, but especially so these last few months—it’s just that Steve notices it more, now, when he thinks of something he wants to share and turns to look for Tony and Tony isn't there.

He's tried just going ahead and sharing whatever thought it was with whoever _does_ happen to be there, but it isn't nearly as satisfying. Jarvis is always very professional in his refusal to comment directly on Avengers affairs, and Logan had just raised an eyebrow at him and said "That's great, Cap," with about as much enthusiasm as he shows for breakfast, which is none.

The times when Tony _is_ there are split between occasions where there are other people present (and sometimes when the team’s around Steve can feel the tension of not-touching-Tony thrumming under his skin, especially if they’re standing next to each other), and the elusive moments of privacy when he has Tony to himself.

Those moments always seemed to expand and contract weirdly, as if time is slowing so that Steve can devote as much concentration as possible to exploring this thing between them, and then speeding up suddenly, usually toward a rather abrupt end involving one or both of them being called away for something pressing and urgent.

He learns a lot about Tony in those moments. He learns that Tony part-way out of the armor is one of his favorite images, even if Tony does complain about how that hinders his flexibility sometimes. He learns that Tony shaves twice a day (if he has an evening engagement and remembers to), and that his stubble is rougher than Steve's own. He learns that Tony will accept morning kisses if they are paired with his first cup of coffee, and that he'll go out of his way to arrange goodbye kisses before he leaves for the office or they go on a mission.

Steve may be developing a Pavlovian reaction to the Avengers alert signal, and Tony’s gotten pretty liberal with pulling him aside for “team leader meetings,” but it’s only been a few days. Things will even out.

The first time Tony invites him to bed, the first time they both get all their clothes off before one of them gets a call, Steve spends almost a full minute just looking at him. It’s not the first time he’s seen Tony naked by a long shot, but it’s the first time he’s really seen him naked and _vulnerable_. Tony’s a master at wearing his ego outside his skin, projecting _Tony Stark, genius millionaire engineer_ even when life leaves him momentarily without armor or more conventional suits, but here, in his bedroom with Steve, he’s just Tony. Steve traces the dip and curve of shadows over his shoulder muscles with his eyes, skims over the scars on Tony’s chest and down lean legs to thin-boned feet.

Tony fidgets a little, his eyes darting over Steve’s body, his right hand tapping against his thigh while his left hand rubs absently at his chest.

“Can I draw you like this?” Steve asks, finally, and Tony laughs and says _later, whatever you want, Steve_ , pulls him in for a kiss and then proceeds to do everything in his power to suck Steve’s brain out through his cock.

The next morning Steve gets lazy pre-dawn kisses even without the magic of coffee, though Tony does make him promise to bring some _”at a more normal morning time, Steve, the sun’s not even up yet.”_

Steve’s pretty sure he’s grinning like a fool for the full duration of his morning run, but he can’t help it. He has a team that works well together, their track record’s getting better all the time, and when he gets home he’ll take Tony a cup of coffee and some breakfast and sit on his bed and for once they’ll talk about the future instead of the past, a future they can build together even beyond the Avengers.

But their lives have never been that easy. Not for long.

When he gets back to the Tower, Tony’s already up and there’s some kind of impromptu meeting happening in the dining room. Peter’s in a bathrobe, glowering at the table like it hurt him personally, and Luke’s looming in the corner, head bowed. Carol’s there, speaking quietly with Jess.

“Cap!” Peter looks up, his expression desperate. “You remember, don’t you?”

“Remember what?” Steve asks, looking at the others for clues. Luke shakes his head, Tony just shrugs. Apparently he doesn’t know any more than Steve does.

“God _Damnit_!” Peter yells, and brings his fists down on the table.

It cracks. Steve catches Tony’s flinch out of the corner of his eye.

“What happened?” Steve asks.

“Wanda happened,” Carol says.

Tony frowns. “She surfaced?” he asks.

“She took over the world,” Luke says. “Mutants at the top, humans on the bottom.”

Steve tries to fit that statement into something he can imagine. It’s not a nice picture.

“But how—” There’s an alert going off, high and shrill. Tony touches his elbow.

“That’s the mansion alarm,” he says.

“Ok.” Steve looks around at his team. “Iron Man and I will go check this out. If any of the rest of you want to come along, you’re welcome to.”

Carol and Jess nod, but Peter just continues to glare at the broken table and Luke shakes his head.

Well then.

“I’ll prep the quinjet,” Jess says. “You and Tony should suit up.”

Steve nods and heads for his room.

***

It’s a short flight, but it’s long enough that he and Tony can get a little more information.

It’s something about Wanda and Pietro (apparently the whole team flew to Genosha before the world changed but Steve doesn’t remember anything about that, either). Carol talks about being a hero, and Luke leading a human resistance movement; Strange is supposedly involved somehow too.

And then Tony catches wind of the news reports and it’s even worse than misplaced memories—thousands of mutants have lost their powers, worldwide. Steve tries to raise the Xavier Institute with no results, and Wolverine’s not answering his communicator.

By the time they land on the mansion grounds Steve doesn’t know what to expect. Scans indicate nothing has changed: no trespassers, no new damage, no sudden restorations.

Tony directs them to what used to be the second gym and Steve shoves down the surge of jealousy in his throat at the way Carol’s gripping Tony’s hand.

They’ve always been good friends, supported each other. It’s not Carol’s fault Steve’s feeling possessive over Tony’s personal space.

The little Hawkeye shrine they find, though, that hits hard enough to leave him breathless.

“Ok,” Tony says. “That definitely wasn’t here before.”

Steve just stares at it.

“Where is she,” he asks, the words tight in his throat. “Wanda. Do we have any idea where she is?”

“Sorry, Cap,” Tony says, his voice stilted through the armor’s filters. “Pretty sure that’s the question of the day and no one’s got a clue.”

They look around, but nothing else has been touched. Steve can’t quite bring himself to take it down.

They go back to the Tower, and Steve sits in the conference room and tries to piece together a new map of the world. A world with only a few hundred mutants. A world where, Strange eventually confirms, these things neither Steve nor Tony can remember really did happen, even if only for a little while.

Peter seems determined to stay in the dining room all day, head in his hands, refusing to talk. He won’t even look at MJ when she tries to get through to him. Carol and Jess disappear halfway through the afternoon and Luke says something about spending time with Jessica.

Tony’s trying to coordinate aid efforts, field calls from the press and SHIELD and draw up new contingency plans for the Avengers all at the same time. Steve does his best to help: he tells Maria they’ll talk later, sets up meetings with the Fantastic Four, Alpha Flight and the Thunderbolts, and makes sure Tony actually sits down to drink a glass of water and eat some of the food Jarvis brings them every once in a while.

Steve’s passed tired by the time Tony finishes the last call and slumps into the chair next to him.

“You should get some sleep,” Steve tells him.

Tony stares straight ahead.

“I don’t think anyone in the superhero business is getting much sleep tonight,” he says, unmoving.

Steve tries to summon up the mental energy to say something reassuring, but the last fourteen hours have sapped all his words. He grips Tony’s shoulder and levers himself to his feet.

“Come on,” he urges, offering his hand. “I happen to know you have a rather nice bed. Certainly nicer than that chair.”

Tony’s smile is small and tired, but it’s better than the thousand-yard stare he’d been giving the opposite wall.

“I never did get that coffee you promised,” he teases as Steve pulls him to his feet.

“I’ll have to make it up to you tomorrow,” Steve says, nudging Tony toward the door.

“Mmf,” Tony leans against him for a moment, then leads the way to his room. “I’ll look forward to it,” he says, and the hint of mischief in his eyes warms Steve right to his core.

***

In retrospect, Steve's timing in starting this whole thing had been rather off the mark. Two days after they wake up to the newest mess Wanda’s left behind, Tony leaves for a week-long conference in India. And then SHIELD calls in a favor and Steve spends most of another week off-radar in the Brazilian jungle with Sharon.

There had been no sign of Bucky, but he hadn’t been expecting any.

When he'd stumbled into bed last night, more grateful than he'd been in a long time for a hot shower and soft clothes and an actual bed to sleep in, he hadn't really thought about more than his own desire for comfort before he'd slid under the sheets next to Tony. It had only been once Tony actually rolled over to look at him, eyes slit with the heaviness of sleep, that he'd realized he maybe should've gone to his own room. They haven't really talked about how this is supposed to work yet and—and Tony had just slung an arm over his shoulder and tucked his head against Steve's collarbone and gone back to sleep. He'd been warm and smelled like coffee and burning plastic, the weight of his arm more reassuring than restraining. It had felt more like coming home than even stepping into the Tower had.

He'd also been gone by the time Steve woke up this morning, sunlight barely creeping through the blinds and a note that said _Welcome back_ on the bedside table.

Steve had really been hoping they'd have time for a goodbye kiss, at least. He wants to show Tony that he's here for the long run, and for once maybe he can convince Tony that he's worth protecting. That he doesn't always have to be the one saving everyone else.

He's got a couple ideas in mind, but his favorite is the one with the fewest words involved, because Tony is a master at twisting words to fit what he thinks they should mean, usually to his own detriment. They can talk about things later—there are definitely things he should tell Tony about, after all. But not yet. Actions have always been the sounder strategy with Tony.

It should feel silly, approaching the seduction of his best friend like a siege on an enemy base, but it doesn't. Tony's always been a challenge - it's one of the reasons their friendship has lasted as long as it has.

He goes for a run, then checks the common areas. Jarvis is polishing silver in the kitchen.

“Good morning, Captain,” he says.

"Good morning,” Steve says on his way to the fridge. “Is Tony around?"

"I'm afraid Master Anthony is attending a meeting in Chicago today, Captain. He said he was hoping to be back this evening, but that you should not wait up for him." Jarvis smiles. "He also noted that you still owe him breakfast tomorrow morning."

"Oh." Damn. Tony had said he was going to try and get out of that meeting. Still, he summons up a smile for Jarvis. "Thank you, Jarvis."

"It's no trouble, Captain," Jarvis says, turning back to his polishing. "Do let me know if you require any new groceries for this breakfast. I believe we have Mister Stark's favorites in stock, but at the rate you heroes eat I cannot be certain exactly what is in the larder at any specific time."

"I'll uh, check on that," Steve manages to say, turning to pour himself a glass of orange juice in an attempt to hide his blush. He's pretty sure the "breakfast" Tony mentioned didn't have anything to do with actual food, but that could just be wishful thinking. Tony does occasionally sit down to actual meals that weren't simply coffee and more coffee.

Still. If Tony’s going to be out all day that should give him time to finish planning his approach. And if he has to wait up half the night to have a chance to put it into action, so be it.

***

The little alarm clock on the bedside table reads 11:37 when Steve is roused from his book by light from the hallway and Tony steps into the bedroom.

He looks tired, his shoulders slumped and his steps slow, and it takes him a minute to realize Steve is there.

"Steve." He looks as if he can't quite figure out why Steve's in his bed. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't." Steve smiles, but he can't be sure how well Tony can see in the dim light of the bedside lamp.

"I didn't think you'd be in here, actually," Tony says, fiddling with his cuffs. "I did say not to wait up, didn't I?"

"I wanted to see you," Steve tells him, setting his book aside.

Tony shoots him a considering look, measuring, like he's an engineering problem to be figured out. Like it can't really be that simple.

"Come here," Steve says, gesturing at the bed.

"I need to ..." Tony gestures vaguely at his clothes, and Steve slides off the bed and crosses the room.

“Let me help,” he says, reaching for Tony’s jacket, but Tony shakes his head.

“That’s not – I mean, I’m not _that_ tired, you don’t need to …” he trails off as Steve catches his waving left hand and brings it to his lips.

“I want to,” Steve insists, kissing Tony’s knuckles, watching his expression soften. "Just sit on the bed," he insists.

Tony blinks; his brow furrows. "What? Steve, I-"

"Sit, Tony."

Tony looks wary as he crosses the room, his fingers still linked through Steve’s, but he sits on the bed without hesitation.

Steve shifts to kneel in front of him and reaches for his right leg. He's had some time to think things over, and he's pretty sure he knows what he wants to do. He unties Tony’s shoelaces with a quick tug and pulls off Tony's shoe, cradling his ankle. Then he reaches up under Tony's slacks and peels his sock off, brushing his knuckles against Tony's shin along the way.

Tony's staring at him, eyes wide and very blue, his mouth slack, and Steve smiles at him, bends to kiss his bared ankle and can't suppress the thrill of warmth at the base of his spine when Tony shivers at the touch. He sets that foot gently on the carpet and reaches for the other.

"I missed you," he admits as he pulls off the other shoe, meeting Tony's eyes again. In the half-light Steve can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, can see his hands twisted into the sheets.

"I always miss you a little, but it's different now." He draws his index finger down Tony's calf as he peels off the other sock, bends and kisses Tony's toe-joints, brushes a line of feathery kisses up to his ankle.

He leans up and slips his hands under the edges of Tony's jacket, pushes it down his shoulders and grins when Tony twists his arms out of the sleeves without prompting. He unbuttons Tony’s shirt one button at a time, kissing the newly bared skin as he goes, and Tony’s even quicker to squirm out of that layer. Steve drapes both shirt and jacket over the side of the bed.

He smoothes his hands up over Tony’s arms and shoulders, drags his hands down the line of Tony's ribs and presses a kiss to his navel.

"Steve. You don't have to do this," Tony says, and Steve laughs.

"I want to do this for you, Tony. You deserve to let someone take care of you every once in a while."

He unbuckles Tony's belt, slides it out of his slacks and drops it to the side in a curl of fine leather.

“Steve, I –”

Tony's hand slides into Steve's hair, and when he glances up he can't quite put together Tony's expression. There's none of his usual energy trapped in bone and muscle and skin, and the curve of his mouth is inexplicably sad, even as Tony tries to twist it into a smirk.

"Not that this view isn't lovely," Tony says, "But I really need to sleep, and I'm not going to be able to return the favor, and—"

Steve puts his hand to Tony's lips.

"This isn't about _favors_ , Tony. I just want to help you relax."

He presses his other hand to Tony's left shoulder and starts kneading his way down Tony's arm. When no further protest comes he uses both hands, rolling Tony's wrist gently and coaxing tension out of Tony's palm with his thumbs. He uses slow, steady pressure down Tony's fingers, pinches and rolls the web between Tony's thumb and forefinger, and Tony groans softly, slumping. His shoulders even relax a bit, his arm moving loosely when Steve adjusts it for a better angle.

“That is not where I thought this was going,” Tony whispers, and Steve grins.

“You’ll have to let me know if I press too hard,” he says, stroking over Tony’s palm with feather-light touches. “It’s been a while since I did this for anyone but myself.”

He presses his thumb between Tony’s knuckles firmly.

“Ungf,” Tony says, and Steve stops, cradling his hand.

“Was that too much?”

“No, no, it was good, just,” Tony sticks out his tongue, his smile rueful. “Just got an image of you naked and covered in massage oil, it was a little distracting.”

Steve leans up to kiss him.

“Next time,” he promises, and the hooded look Tony gives him as he pulls back sends heat straight to his groin.

 _Later_ he tells himself. _There’ll be time for that. Later._

He makes his way back up Tony's arm, paying special attention to his wrist and elbow, pushing gently at the joints and feeling for lines of tension. When he gets to Tony's shoulder and starts on his neck Tony moans and leans forward, his head a comfortable weight on Steve's shoulder.

"Shh, that's it," Steve coaxes, running his fingers up into Tony's hair and then down and out, stroking over the planes of his back. Tony's skin is warm under his hands, the occasional scars mostly smooth under his fingertips. Nicks and burns, mostly, the messy record of a gunshot wound over Tony's lower back and a curving line up his ribs that Steve's pretty sure dates to before Tony built the first armor.

"Just relax," he whispers, kneading at Tony's shoulders from below the scapula, stroking his fingers into the dip of Tony’s spine. "Just let me take care of you, just for a little while."

He strokes down Tony’s right arm to give that hand the same treatment he gave the left, and Tony leans more of his weight into Steve’s shoulder, his nose pressing against Steve’s collarbone, his elbow sliding off his knee to let his arm hang limp as Steve traces swirls and swooping curves into his skin.

He presses careful lines over Tony’s side and back with long, smooth motions. Runs his fingers over Tony’s ribs with one hand and slides the other through Tony’s hair, rubbing gently at his scalp.

Tony pushes his face more firmly into Steve neck, pressing lazy kisses along the edge of his T-shirt.

Steve’s not sure he’s ever seen Tony this relaxed, not even after sex. This is _surrender_ , even more than he expected might happen.

He cradles the back of Tony’s head with one hand and nudges him backward with the other.

“Lean back,” Steve urges. “Come on Tony. All the way on the bed.”

Tony flails a little at that, his stubborn streak coming to the fore.

“I should—” he pushes himself into a sitting position and starts unzipping his slacks.

“I can—” Steve starts, but Tony bats his hands away.

“No, no, I got it,” he insists, leaning back and lifting his hips as he pushes down on the waistband of his slacks. One pant leg ends up getting tangled around his foot and he scoots backward onto the bed, kicking irritably until Steve grabs the swinging edge of the hem and pull the pants the rest of the way off.

Tony glares at him a little, petulant, but Steve ignores it and follows him up onto the bed, kissing his way up Tony’s body as he goes. By the time he gets to Tony’s lips the glare is gone, replaced by some emotion Steve can’t quite read.

Tony strokes the side of his face and pulls him into a soft kiss.

“You’re lucky I’m so tired,” he murmurs against Steve lips.

“That so?” Steve asks, ducking down to mouth at Tony’s neck.

“Yeah,” Tony sighs. “Otherwise …” he trails off into a whine as Steve licks over his collarbone.

“Not fair,” he insists, when Steve leans up to press another kiss to his lips.

“You can pay me back later,” Steve tells him, grinning. He presses one last kiss to the center of Tony’s chest and sits up, repositioning himself for better access to Tony’s legs.

He kneads his way down Tony’s hips and thighs, smiling when Tony just lets his head fall back against the bed, eyes closed. He shifts again to focus on one leg at a time, pays special attention to Tony’s knee and strokes down his calf to his ankle. Then he scoots back and pulls Tony’s foot into his lap, stroking his thumbs under Tony’s heel and pressing smoothly into his arch.

“Oh God,” Tony says, and Steve freezes.

“Too much?” he asks, but Tony’s already shaking his head lazily.

“Don’t stop,” he says, so Steve keeps going. For a guy who supposedly does most of his work at a desk Tony spends an awful lot of time on his feet, and it gives Steve a little thrill under his ribs to take a few minutes just making sure each foot gets some attention from heel to toe.

When he’s done he strokes down Tony’s legs one last time, tracing long lines of muscle. This is another sight he’s never seen before—Tony stretched out on pale sheets, his limbs lax, his body motionless but for the slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathes—and Steve already knows he won’t be drawing this. Just _seeing_ Tony like this makes his heart ache, tight in his chest. Putting this image on paper puts it at risk, and this isn’t something he’s willing to risk even a little.

He crawls back up the bed and nudges Tony’s shoulder.

“Let’s get you under the covers,” he says.

Tony moans in protest but rolls onto his side obediently, his movements slow and a little sloppy. He holds himself up just long enough for Steve to get the top sheet out from under him and then flops onto his pillow, eyes still closed.

Steve smiles and checks that the water glass he prepared is still sitting on the bedside table—after all that Tony’s bound to wake up dehydrated—then turns off the lamp and pulls the sheet and blanket over both of them.

Tony doesn’t protest when Steve curls around him, just snuggles back into him, sighing when Steve presses a kiss to the back of his neck.

He feels like he should say something - _good night_ maybe, or _sleep well_ , but the words get caught behind all the other things he wants to say. Things like _Thank you,_ and _I’ll always take care of you, if you let me_ , and _please, please trust me with that_.

He can’t say any of it. It’s too much.

He presses his nose against the nape of Tony’s neck and pulls him just a little closer, breathing him in. _Sleep_ he tells himself. _Sleep. Tomorrow’s a new day._

For once, he’s looking forward to it.


	5. H.O.L.L.A.N.D.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> H.O.L.L.A.N.D. - Hope Our Love Lasts And Never Dies

**Chapter 5: H.O.L.L.A.N.D.**

The day Peter finally, _officially_ moves into the Tower actually turns out to be a relatively quiet one for New York, if not for the actual Tower inhabitants. Tony forgets it’s happening until Peter shows up in the kitchen at just past 9:00, looking twitchy and awkward. Not that Tony's ever really seen him _comfortable_ without his mask, but still. It's MJ, her arm through Peter's, who looks like she actually wants to be there.

Tony smiles at her, and she grins, bright and happy, and Tony doesn't have to wonder for a moment what Peter sees in her. 

"Welcome to Stark Tower," he says. "Your rooms are two floors up."

"I thought," Peter gestures vaguely, "upstairs ...?"

"That's Luke and Jess's floor. The floor above yours is shared by Spider-Woman and Logan and any guests or reserve members."

"We get the whole floor?" MJ asks.

"No reason why you shouldn't," Tony tells her. "I've got more than enough room."

There are a multitude of boxes to carry and furniture to set up (May has some strong opinions about proper seating accommodation, apparently), and by the time they get everything in good-enough-to-be-going-on-with order and break for food Jess and MJ are in deep conversation setting up some kind of girl’s night/spa day plan with MJ, Carol, May and Jessica Jones, Luke is fending off May’s well wishes on his upcoming fatherhood and Logan’s drinking his third beer. Steve and Jarvis clean up the lunch dishes in the kitchen and Peter just sort of wanders from group to group with the dazed expression of a man so far out of his element he’s trying to sprout gills.

Tony retreats to the balcony off of the dining room to get a little air. The breeze is pretty brisk this high up, but it gives him a moment to collect his thoughts. The scene in the common areas is familiar and new at the same time, and he’s having a little trouble processing it all. It'll never be like the mansion, but it's closer, now. Maybe that's enough.

Steve steps outside and passes him a cup of coffee. Just standing next to him makes half Tony's nerves light up in anticipation. It’s incredibly tempting to slide just a step or two closer, till their shoulders touch and he can feel Steve’s warmth all down his arm.

He takes one step. Two might be a little more public than Steve’s ready for. Or Tony himself, for that matter. 

“I think Peter just asked me if coffee fetching was a standard live-in Avenger duty. He wanted to know how I drank it.” Steve says.

Tony shrugs and sips at his drink. Fresh-ground and brewed Jamaican Blue Mountain roast. Jarvis must’ve restocked it.

“He seems pretty fixated on you.” He slants a look at Steve over the rim of his cup. “Not that I can blame him for that. And he was talking a lot about how much time we spend together a few weeks ago. Maybe he has a crush,” he teases.

Steve wrinkles his nose over his own mug. 

“He’s married. His wife was standing right next to him.”

Tony smirks. “Steve, marriage doesn’t actually blind you from noticing other people, and you are highly noticeable and always have been. I'm pretty sure MJ wouldn't complain too much.”

Steve swallows a mouthful of coffee and licks his lips. “Maybe it’s you, then,” he says.

That makes Tony pause, cup halfway to his mouth.

“What?”

“Well, you’re the one he was talking to. Maybe he has a crush on _you_.”

Tony snorts. Right. Some kind of science-crush _maybe_ , but Peter’s fully capable of his own feats of engineering brilliance.

“Why not?” Steve asks, leaning against the balcony railing in a full-body slant. “You’re handsome. Smart. Funny.”

“Don’t forget rich,” Tony murmurs into his coffee.

Steve frowns.

“I don’t think Peter would want you for your money, Tony.”

"Not like you then," Tony winks.

Steve rolls his eyes, but he's smiling, too. "Yes, of course. I'm only here so you can pay for my expensive superhero habit. It certainly has nothing to do with you being smart and funny and handsome and my best friend."

"Oh good," Tony grins at him. "Now I can stop worrying about that."

Steve chuckles and takes Tony's hand. Steve's hand is warm, and the stroke of his thumb along Tony's palm is affectionate. Steve looks at him like he's something to be cherished. A secret joy, held close at hand.

"Let's go somewhere," Steve suggests, shifting his grip to brush his thumb over Tony's knuckles.

Tony tries to convey his skepticism, but it's hard when Steve's looking at him like he hung the moon. 

"Like where?" he asks. They could go for a walk, they could get a hotel room, some space away from prying teammates and their families. They could take the jet anywhere in the world.

"I don't care," Steve says. "Just. Out."

"I can do that," Tony agrees. 

"Good." Steve drops his hand. "See you in the hanger in ten."

Tony watches him back toward the balcony doors, bemused.

"Care to share with the class, Cap?" he asks.

Steve just grins at him, afternoon sun caught in his hair, his eyes bright.

"Just bring the armor," he says.

***

' _Bring the armor_ ' turns out to be Steve-code for "Take me flying so I can ravish you in a secluded spot without anyone noticing."

Tony’s really fine with this. He’s just glad he thought to bring one of the older armors, outdated though it may be, because no matter how useful the undersuit is, it’s not really comfortable for things like sitting on grass and rocks next to a river. They’re somewhere wooded and semi-wild in central New York State, probably either in a State Park or next to one. He’ll look it up later, it’s not important.

What _is_ important is that Steve is leaning over him, braced against the boulder Tony’s sitting on, kissing him like he can crawl inside Tony’s skin with it. Like there’s nothing else he wants to do and nowhere else he wants to be. 

Not that there’s really anywhere else Tony wants to be either. The sunlight is warm against his back, there’s a light breeze ruffling his hair, and Steve is in front of him, his knees nudging the inside of Tony’s thighs, one hand spread over Tony’s ribs, his lips and tongue fully devoted to Tony’s mouth.

Tony’s paid a lot of attention to Steve’s battle-form over the years, and he keeps thinking—he’s spending too much time thinking about it, really—that Steve kisses a lot like he throws the shield. There’s an intense surge of focus and commitment, and then he lets go of control for a while, letting Tony lead until some signal goes off in his head and he just reaches out and steals Tony’s breath straight out of his lungs like it doesn’t even take any effort.

Like now. Tony’s just sliding his hands up under Steve’s T-shirt when Steve’s shifts back a bit and pushes his fingers through Tony’s beard, up into his hair, feather-light touches sending shivers down Tony’s spine. Tony leans up to catch his mouth again, but Steve just nips at his lips and ducks down to lick at Tony’s neck, scrapes his teeth over Tony’s carotid artery and his hand down Tony’s back. 

Tony runs his nails up Steve’s ribs and digs his fingers into Steve’s back and wishes he was coordinated enough to execute some kind of judo throw that would end with them pressed together on the ground without jarring Steve’s neck.

He’s never quite sure if he has the same effect on Steve. There have been a few times he’s managed to catch Steve looking a little wrecked, and once or twice blissed out and _happy_ , but mostly he gets soft smiles and hooded eyes and the occasional wicked little smirk that makes him want to drop whatever he’s doing and just give over any scrap of control he’s still holding onto. Being with Steve like this is intoxicating, addictive, heady and terrifying, and there are days Tony’s sure he’s going to hold on too tight, both hands reaching and Steve still slipping through his fingers.

But Steve keeps coming back, claps on the back lingering a little longer, touches to his side instead of his shoulder, the inside of his elbow, the back of his neck. Whatever it is Steve wants out of this, Tony seems to be providing it. 

He slides off the boulder slowly, dragging Steve with him by the hips until he’s on his back in the grass and he’s got a lapful of laughing super soldier. 

“You could’ve just said you wanted to move,” Steve says, squinting a little in the sun.

Tony shrugs.

“Didn’t want to interrupt you,” he says, and the grin Steve gives him is terribly smug. 

His fingers trace swirls into the skin at Tony’s hip, just under the hem of his shirt, and that really shouldn’t have the power to make Tony quite this eager. He leans up and reaches for Steve’s belt with one hand, tugging at his zipper with the other, and Steve presses his face into Tony’s neck.

Then his watch starts beeping, and for a moment Tony wants nothing more in the world than to smash the thing.

"Shoot." Steve rolls to his feet. The breeze is a little chilly in his wake, the sky a deep, enveloping blue.

"What is it?" Tony asks, resigned. If Steve’s gone so far as to set an alarm, Tony’s probably not going to be able to convince him to put whatever it is off.

"I told Jess we'd run the HYDRA sim at 1600 and it's 1515 now," Steve says, poking at his watch. The beeping stops.

Team stuff. Even better. He tries anyway.

"So call her and say we'll be late." 

Steve just shakes his head and starts straightening his clothes. 

"The team comes first, remember?"

Tony doesn’t remember ever having that conversation, actually, but since it sounds like something he’d agree to he doesn’t comment on it.

"Sure you don’t want to finish this?" Tony asks, leaning up on his elbows. He’s got a pretty good idea what he looks like—his lips are swollen, his hair’s mussed, and his shirt’s rucked halfway up his stomach. If he had Steve looking like this he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to walk away for anything less than a world-saving emergency.

He watches Steve look him up and down. Watches him lick his lips.

"Save it for after," he says, and Tony lets his head fall back with a groan.

"I can fly pretty fast Steve, we have time."

"Good, then I'll be able to pick up the shield too."

Tony knocks his head against the grass a few times. 

"This sort of planning failure is really not like you, Captain Rogers," he says, sitting up reluctantly. "I've come to expect better."

Steve just grins at him over his shoulder as he does up his belt.

"Guess I had a good distraction."

“Not quite good enough, apparently,” Tony mutters, but he’s not really protesting anymore. Steve’s right. The team does come first.

He straightens his clothes and starts putting on the armor, using the familiar motions to change his focus back to I _ron Man and Captain America_ instead of _Tony Stark and Steve Rogers_ , or , as it’s starting to sound in his head, _Steveandme_ , just one long word. He’d thought he’d get used to this somehow, but instead it’s getting more and more difficult to keep his personal relationship with Steve from bleeding into working with the Avengers. They used to be able to stand next to each other, to plan together and even finish each other’s' sentences without this electric tingle under his skin. It’s distracting at times when he doesn’t need a distraction at all.

Sometimes he feels like he has "sleeping with Captain America" blazoned across his chest. Which wouldn't be so bad if everyone already knew about it.

He’s not sure if he wants everyone to know about it.

“Ready?” Steve asks, and Tony holds out his arm. They’ll make it work. They always seem to manage somehow.

***

It’s late when he tracks Steve down after training. He’s at a desk in the library with his nose buried in the kind of file that accompanies SHIELD missions. Tony gets a glimpse of glossy photos and aged paper before Steve looks up and snaps the folder shut.

“Anything I can help with?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe. Steve shakes his head.

“Take a break then?”

Steve’s looks like he’s going to speak, but he doesn’t say anything. He snaps his mouth shut and stares down at the file again.

Tony licks his lips and looks to the ceiling, studies rug on the floorboards. He’s never sure what to do when Steve shuts him out anymore. Distract him like a friend? Give him his space like a teammate? Try to comfort him like a lover?

Steve doesn’t look terribly open to comfort, and he’s already rejected distractions.

“Or I could leave you alone?” he asks.

Steve’s lips are pressed in a thin line, but he shakes his head.

Then he pushes the folder across the desk. Toward Tony.

Ah. That’s … different.

Tony approaches cautiously. He runs his fingertips over the folder, looking between it and Steve’s face. The cardstock’s a little worn at the corners, and some of the papers are so old he can actually see foxing on the edges. 

He resists the urge to just open it and find out what’s eating at Steve so thoroughly. There’s something off here.

“Should I ask for some context on this?”

Steve’s grimace doesn’t tell him much.

“You know about Bucky,” he says, finally. His gaze stays on the file.

Tony can feel his eyebrows climbing higher on his forehead.

“World War II, kid-sidekick Bucky?” he asks. “Sure. I’m pretty sure I dressed up as him for Halloween once or twice,” he admits.

Steve licks his lips and puts his elbows on the desk, leaning into them.

“He’s alive,” he says, clasping his hands together.

Wow. That is—impossible. Amazing. Tony shakes his head. This is Steve’s past their talking about. This is a link to his life before the ice.

“That’s great isn’t it?”

Steve’s just staring at the file. Like maybe he could set it on fire if he thought about it hard enough.

So… not great then.

“He’d be what, 60? 70 years old by now?” Tony asks. 

Steve opens the file and spreads out the contents—reports, a few photos, some of them old, others that look like they’re from security footage.

“He doesn’t look it,” Steve says, flicking one at him. A dark-haired man stares up from it. He looks maybe 30. Certainly no older than Steve himself.

Tony picks up the picture.

“You’re sure this is him,” he confirms, and Steve’s already nodding. Of course he’s sure. 

He doesn’t look much like the kid that stood at Cap’s side in film and print all those years ago, but the reports don’t leave much doubt. An American. An associate of Captain America. Young. And that skill-set. Who else could it be but Bucky?

“This is what you’ve been worried about, isn’t it?” It makes sense. Steve’s worked with SHIELD for a long time, but in the last few months the relationship has seemed more strained, even before Fury went into hiding and left Hill in charge.

It also explains the faraway look Steve sometimes gets, especially when he’s just back from some top-secret SHIELD op.

“I want to find him,” Steve’s saying. “Help him somehow.”

Tony looks at the pictures spread out on the table. Assassinations, mostly. Speculation. A psych profile more twisted than most of the villains they tangle with.

“You know that’s a dangerous road,” he says. Some of the photos are decades old. There are reports of cryogenic stasis and a fair amount of cybernetics work. He can’t quite bring himself to tell Steve that even if they find this guy, he’s not going to be the kid Steve remembers. Not even close.

Looking at him, he’s pretty sure Steve already knows that, anyway. He just doesn’t care. 

“I can’t just let him go,” Steve says, which, of course not. That much, at least, was pretty obvious. “He’s suffered so much. If I had just—“

“Steve.” Tony shakes his head. “You can’t blame yourself for what some mad Russian did decades ago. You can’t change the past. Even if you could go back, find him, there’s no guarantee he wouldn’t find himself in some other mess.”

“I could’ve—“

Tony holds up a hand. There are all sorts of things that _could have_ happened, but this isn’t some cold case, this is something they can act on _now_

“No talking about the past,” he insists. “We are focusing on the future. What have you tried so far?” 

He picks up a drawing. It’s a blueprint, really, as intricate as the armor. More than, in some places. And entire arm, built out of metal and wire. It’s a beautiful piece of work.

“I’m trying to track the cube, mostly,” Steve tells him. “Last we knew, he was carrying it.”

“I might be able to help with that part,” Tony notes, and Steve nods.

Tony squints at the drawing. The detail in the fingers is _stunning_.

“Thank you,” Steve whispers after a moment.

“For what?” Tony stares at him, the sketch loose in his fingers. “I haven’t done anything yet.”

Steve’s mouth quirks. “You didn’t tell me I _shouldn’t_ look for him, either. Or call me crazy.”

The rift with SHIELD is starting to make a lot more sense.

“I take it you’ve met some resistance on this then.”

“Some.” Steve shrugs. He looks tired, shadows dragging at his limbs. 

He’s not _focused_. He’s just staring at one of the photos, looking like—like he did standing in the blackened, ruined shell of the Mansion when the Avengers broke up. Like a marionette who’s string have been cut. Like he’s caught in a miserable downpour and doesn’t know if the sun’s ever going to come out again.

_Finding Bucky_ isn’t the problem he’s looking for help with here.

Tony sweeps the file materials back together and stacks them straight, careful to touch only the edges of the old paper. 

“I’m glad you told me,” he says, handing the folder back. He touches the crown of Steve’s head, a little hesitant, but Steve just sets the folder down, doesn’t try to look up. Tony runs his fingers through Steve’s short-cropped hair, down to the bit of Steve’s neck he can reach, right where his skull connects to his spine. Steve’s head drops lower, his neck and shoulders relaxing a little.

“Come to bed,” Tony murmurs. “Let me take care of you for once.” 

Steve balks, but Tony just takes his hand and circles around the desk to tug him out of his chair.

“It’s late. We’re not going to solve this tonight. I’ll run some tests later. For now, just get some _rest_.” He strokes his thumb over Steve’s fingers and steps close enough that he can nudge Steve toward the door with a light touch to the small of his back. It’s worth a shot. It certainly works on _him_.

Steve gives him a knowing look, but he doesn’t protest. 

“Thank you,” he says again.

Tony’s pretty sure he’s not talking about the file this time.

***

Tony blinks down at the production report he’s supposed to be reading, but hasn’t actually taken in more than ten words of in the past—he glances at the clock—God, 15 minutes. At least ten minutes of which he’d spent just staring into space, thinking about Steve’s smile. Steve’s lips on his and Steve’s hands on his jaw and the wild swooping sensation his heart goes through every time he remembers he didn’t need to ignore those thoughts.

Except, if it’s going to have this effect on him he really, really should figure out a way to set those thoughts aside and get some work done. SI can’t afford to lose any more of his time than the Avengers already claim.

He refocuses on the report and makes himself read each word, process each sentence. He makes notes in the margins, summaries for each paragraph, potential problems, questions to ask. There’s been something off about this plant’s reports the last few months, but he hasn’t been able to track down anything concrete—there’s always a little reason for the shortages, something like illness or misdirected supplies or key pieces of equipment malfunctioning, and no one’s willing to take up the slack or report the loss before the quarterly reports are due. 

It’s as if they think they’ll make up the difference somehow, or they don’t notice until they’re 10 weeks into the quarter.

He should probably visit. Talk with the managers, chat with a few of the employees if he can get them to open. 

He picks up the phone.

“Mrs. Rennie, what does my schedule look like for the next month? Can I squeeze in a trip to the Fremont factory?”

“If you don’t disappear into your garage for more than a few days,” she sounds highly doubtful that he’ll manage this, “you might be able to make a short visit on the way to the FutureStack conference.” 

“Great,” Tony says, ignoring the fact that she’s probably right to doubt his ability to stick to his schedule—the Avengers are needed too often, “pencil it in, please.”

She sighs. “As you wish, Mr. Stark. Do try to remember that if you miss the board meeting on Tuesday I will be personally obligated to deliver your head to Mr. Connor.”

Tony’s cell phone chirps at him. He flips it open—a picture of Balthazar, from Janet Van Dyne, and a time. 

“The meeting will begin at 3,” Mrs. Rennie continues on the other end of the landline. 

Tony glances at the clock—it’s 2:20 now, and Jan’s message says 2:45.

“Mr. Stark?” Rennie asks when he doesn’t answer, “Are you alright, Mr. Stark?”

“Fine, fine just, ah. Busy. Avengers business. Board meeting at 3 on Tuesday, you said?”

“Yes, Mr. Stark.”

“Got it,” Tony says. He stands and grabs his jacket off the back of his chair. Jan could want anything from a friendly conversation to a place on the team, and either way Tony’s happy to take a break for her. “I’m going out for lunch, call me if anything urgent comes up.”

“Of course, Mr. Stark,” Rennie says, and hangs up.

Tony shrugs into his jacket, adjusts his cufflinks and heads for the garage.

***

Steve texts him just as he pulls up, _Missed you this morning. Dinner tonight?_.Tony tosses the keys to the valet and texts back on his way in— _Should be home by 7, dinner sounds great_ —and slides his phone into his pocket.

The restaurant is quieter than he expects, but it’s late for lunch and far too early for dinner, which is probably part of why Jan chose the time. The Maître d’ escorts him to a small table with a view of the city, and Jan is waiting for him, perfectly composed and looking significantly healthier than when she’d left for England with Hank.

She waves away both their waiter and his offer of a wine list and looks Tony up and down. For a moment he feels inexplicably guilty that he’s wearing three-year-old Zegna instead of one of her own designs, but he couldn’t have been expected to know she’d be calling today. Of course, it’s possible she’d want him to never wear anything but her own designs, and maybe the armor.

She nods as he sits down, apparently to herself.

“You’re dating again,” she announces, a smug little smile on her lips. “Are you going to tell me who?”

“Wha-” Tony freezes, water glass halfway to his mouth, “I am not!” There’s no way she could know, just by looking at him. Not that some of his friends don’t have strange and privacy-invading powers, but Tony’s pretty sure Jan’s abilities don’t relate to deciphering his love life.

She cocks her head, clearly unimpressed by him. 

“Your tie is in a Prince Albert knot, which you only ever wear when you’ve forgotten what you’re doing as you tie it,” she ticks off on her fingers. “You’re actually wearing cufflinks, which means you aren’t planning on going to your workshop at all today, and that you want to look nice for something after work.”

“That’s not -”

Jan holds up a hand and talks over him. 

“You’re smiling to yourself and I think you were actually humming under your breath before you saw me. And now you’re trying to remember the last time you willingly wore cufflinks to work and probably not coming up with anything because I’ve seen you try to weasel your way out of wearing them with a tux, don’t pretend you haven’t.”

Tony stops fiddling with his cuffs and glares at her. She just raises an eyebrow at him.

“Really, Tony. I’ve possibly known you longer than anyone besides Jarvis at this point. Don’t even try to deny it.”

“For the record,” Tony says, spitting the words through his teeth, “I don’t believe that how I wear my clothes has anything to do with my dating habits. And” He raises his voice a little when she opens her mouth, “I’m actually not _dating_ anyone at the moment.”

He’s not, technically. They haven’t talked about what they’re doing. There have been no actual dates. Just the idea of it feels a little alien—he’s never even thought about _dating_ Steve. Anything they could possibly do as a date they’ve probably already done as friends and teammates, with the possible exception of parking.

He lifts his glass again and puts that on his mental list of things to do now that kissing Steve isn’t quite so out of the question as he’s always assumed.

“Your smile says you’re at least thinking about it,” Jan says, pointing at him accusingly, and damnit, he _is_ smiling. This is getting entirely out of hand. 

“So,” Jan continues, “Either you’re a Skrull, and Steve will be very disappointed that he has to kill you and track down the real Tony, or—oh my god.” 

Tony chokes on his water, heat spreading over his cheeks and the back of his neck, and Jan just stares.

“Oh my god,” she repeats, leaning forward, whispering now. “Is it _Steve_? It’s Steve, isn’t it? Oh my god, _Tony_.”

She’s got her hands over her mouth, and he can’t tell if she’s shocked or delighted or both. He puts down his glass and tries to make his brain do some actual work. He needs good words right now. There’s no way he’s going to be able to salvage this. Not with Jan. 

“Please don’t tell anyone,” he says finally, deciding he’s not going to come up with anything better. “We haven’t talked about—” he waves vaguely, “well, anything, really.”

That’s … probably not good, in retrospect. 

Jan drops her hands and leans on her elbows. 

“Is he as good in bed as all those gymnastics make him look like he should be?” she asks.

“I’m not answering that,” Tony tells her, but the smile he can’t quite hold back probably speaks for him

Jan presses her hand to his.

“At least tell me if you’re happy with him,” she coaxes, and Tony nods. Certainly happier than he expected to be, six months ago.

“I’m glad,” Jan says, sitting back and smiling at him. “You certainly _looked_ happy up on that stage with your helmet off. I suppose I should have guessed it had more to do with Steve standing next to you than putting the Avengers back together.”

Tony ducks his head. “You watched the press conference then.”

“Of course I watched the press conference. The whole world watched that broadcast. It’s not every day someone like Tony Stark admits to being a superhero. _Again_.”

Tony shakes his head. He’s still not sure revealing his secret identity was the best move, but it’s done now. No one had seemed terribly surprised.

Jan squeezes his fingers comfortingly.

“You deserve to be happy, Tony,” she says, earnest.

“Not everyone would agree with that, you know,” he says, pulling back and picking up the menu.

“‘Everyone’ can go stuff themselves,” Jan tells him. “Now, if you’re not going to tell me about your love life, you can tell me about the team. Is it true you asked Jameson to stop writing negative articles about Spider-Man?”

***

Tony doesn’t go back to the office when Jan sees him off with a cheery wave and secretive wink. He goes back to the Tower, but heads for his lab instead, bypassing the Avenger’s floors entirely. He needs to think, he needs to wrap his head around this. And the armor could use some attention—it’s too heavy, too bulky. He used to be able to fit it in a suitcase for Pete’s sake, there’s got to be something he can do to make it more portable without sacrificing power or protection too much. Boots first. Start from the ground up. 

He pulls up the schematics for the jets and settles into mapping out changes. 

The thing is, he’d never really believed it would happen. Loving Steve—that’s pretty much just a fact of his life. And it isn’t even a sexual thing most of the time (He defied any sexual being to look at Steve in uniform or sweaty from sparring and not develop some kind of sexual feelings for him, at least for that moment). It’s friendship and teammates and ten years of what Thor would probably call blood-brothers. And if he sometimes stares too long at Steve’s eyes or thinks a little too hard about the curve of Steve’s jaw or the set of his shoulders, it isn’t important. Not the way having Steve at his side in front of the world was. Not the way knowing Steve has his back is. 

And what will happen if ( _when_ , it could only be _when_ , really) Steve moves on? Because Tony is never going to live up to the person Steve thinks he could be. He’ll be striving his whole life to get even halfway there.

Steve and Sharon seem to get on well enough. And Steve apparently still talks to Bernie sometimes. But …

Tony’s most successful relationship to date was probably with Rumiko, and that had had plenty of ups and downs. And in the end …

He screws his eyes shut, banishes the image back into the fathomless vault of memories he never wants to experience again.

But the point is there. When he screws up, he does it badly, on scales he has no previous experience with. And he _will_ screw up.

When the door opens, he’s sure it can only be Steve or Jarvis. They’re the only ones whose access codes would work right now. He’s probably missed a meal.

He can tell by the footsteps it’s Steve—Jarvis would’ve stopped just inside the door and called for him.

He concentrates on the firing mechanism circuitry. Just one more connection and he can move to the next section. 

Steve’s arm drops over his shoulder, his chest warm against Tony’s back.

“Rough day?” he asks, his breath on Tony’s ear. 

“It was fine,” Tony says, setting down the pliers. He slumps back in his chair and looks up at Steve through his bangs.

“How’s the team?” he asks.

“They’re good,” Steve says, leaning back a bit himself. He shifts, and then he’s kneading at the muscles at the base of Tony’s neck, around his shoulders, over his clavicles. Sliding up his neck into his hair, just the barest hint of nails against his scalp. 

“Went through a few scenarios with Jess and Luke. Logan wants to go after Barbarus, if we can. We can talk about it later.”

Tony closes his eyes, a sigh escaping him as he leans into Steve’s hands. Steve’s fingertips rub over his temples and from the bridge of his nose to his hairline, always with a light, even pressure.

He has no idea where Steve picked this up. Maybe it was physical therapy, maybe there’s someone in Steve’s past Tony should track down and give obscene amounts of money to. He never quite manages to ask.

Steve tugs at his earlobes, massages behind them and along the curve of Tony’s skull. His hair’s going to be a mess after this but it doesn’t matter. He’s done for the day and the only person who’s going to see him is Steve. Besides, that’s what combs are for.

He feels his shoulders relax, gradually, and he slumps even further into the chair. He’ll have to return the favor at some point but right now it’s bliss to just focus on Steve’s hands in his hair and forget about SI for a moment, forget about the team and Jan and—he goes stiff again, he can feel it. His back and neck tightening up against his will.

Shit. Steve’s going to notice that. The soothing rubbing has already stopped.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asks, his hands still.

“Nothing.” Tony leans back to smile up at him. “Really, it’s nothing. That feels wonderful, please continue.”

Steve just stares down at him, impassive. Tony sighs.

“I saw Jan today,” he says. Probably better to get the whole thing over with, no matter how tempting it is to just hold on to these moments. If it goes well he’ll have plenty more of them. If it doesn’t … well, then he’s just been fooling himself anyway. Still. Steve has never shown any indication that he’s the type of guy to lead anyone on. Not like this.

Steve’s hand slips off Tony’s head as he moves to take the other chair. Tony tries not to let his disappointment show.

“How is she?” Steve asks. Tony can’t read his expression.

“Good,” he nods. “Building up a new line, getting back into the fashion scene. Seems she and Hank decided not to get back together after all, which is … something.”

He realizes he’s staring rather determinedly at Steve’s knees and lifts his gaze. Steve just looks back at him, perfectly still. Waiting.

“She, ah … deduced that I was dating someone.” He rubs his hands together, tries to dispel some of the nerves jangling under his skin. “I didn’t know what to tell her,” he admits. “We haven’t really talked about—” he waves at the space between them, “whatever this is that we’re doing. Are we—” he meets Steve’s eyes, “Are we dating? Are we telling anyone? Jan knows, now, either way, but—is this a secret thing we don’t talk about, or a private thing we’re fine with our friends finding out about, or a public—” he chokes a little on the words, “Are we telling the press about this?”

Steve’s eyes open wider, his “waiting for you to finish” expression slipping into something more like surprise. It’s actually a bit gratifying. Like maybe Steve hasn’t really thought this through either.

Of course, that could also mean he’ll break things off here and now which is—fine. Tony can deal with that. He can.

He wants a drink. He clenches his hands together and forces himself to keep looking Steve in the face.

“I—” Steve rubs his hands over his face, but he meets Tony’s eyes again afterward. “I want to try this with you.” He smiles, small, but genuine. “I’ve really enjoyed it so far, and I think you have too.”

Tony nods, a smile tugging at his mouth. It’s not as though there’s any point in denying it. He’s been rather enthusiastic.

“So… what do you think?” Steve asks, taking Tony’s hand. “I’m certainly not ashamed of this, but I don’t want you to feel like you have to tell anyone. I might be a little disappointed, but I’ll understand.”

“I …” Tony frowns, linking his fingers through Steve’s. “I can’t tell the press. I probably shouldn’t even tell the board.” He offers up a self-deprecating smile. “Your PR is pretty good, but my reputation can’t really take another controversy right now. Not yet. The board’s still in snits about me being back in the suit.”

Steve nods, waiting.

“I guess …” Tony pushes his hair off his forehead. “If people find out, friends, that’s fine. We can tell them, if you want.”

It might even be a good thing. If the rest of the team knows, if more of their friends know, maybe someone will stop him before he screws up too badly. And he wouldn’t have to stop himself reaching out to Steve just because there’s someone else in the room. He probably will, most of the time, but he wouldn’t have to.

“I’m pretty sure some of them already suspect,” Steve says, grinning at him. “I wasn’t exactly being subtle, Tony.”

Ah. Well. Tony’s always been a bit slow on the uptake there. And he’d never expected Steve to even think of him like that, let alone act on it and—well suddenly a lot of conversations with their teammates are starting to make more sense. 

“Ok,” Tony blows out a breath. “Ok?” he asks.

Steve shifts his grip and drags him up out of his chair. 

“Come on,” he says, still smiling. He pokes at one of Tony’s cufflinks, tilting it enough that Tony can see the concentric red and blue stripes on its surface. The white star. 

God, he really is hopeless. How did he not even realize what he was putting on this morning? It’s a wonder Jan was the only one to say anything. 

“Jarvis left dinner in the oven for us,” Steve tells him. “We should eat.”

“Ok,” Tony says again, squeezing Steve’s hand.

Wait.

“Wait, does _Jarvis_ know?” he asks, panic crawling in his throat.

Steve just laughs and leads him to the elevator.

***

They get a call from the Fantastic Four, and it’s a bit of a doozy.

The ... _thing_ attacking the Baxter building isn't quite like anything Tony's fought before. It changes shape, but if it's a shape-shifter it doesn't follow any of the rules he's been led to expect. It adapts to new attacks, but not the way an adaptoid would. It speaks, but doesn't seem to have a concentrated intelligence. 

About the only things Tony can definitively say about it are that it’s large, black, and extremely efficient at destruction. Reed hasn’t been able to come up with anything useful on it yet and neither Johnny’s fire nor Ben’s fists havet made much of a dent. So far Sue’s force field over the main building is holding up, but the surrounding road and sidewalk are a mess of cracks and broken bits of cars and trees. The Avengers are tied up in distraction efforts, keeping the thing’s main force off of Sue, and unfortunately _distraction_ is pretty much the best they’re managing. 

“I’m getting really strange readings off this thing, Cap,” Tony says, buzzing the heaving mass of darkness. “Solar energy, gamma radiation, some kind of psychic energy too.”

“Anything we can actually use?” Spider-Woman asks. Her energy blasts don’t seem to be having much effect.

“Not sure,” Tony admits, “maybe if you lead it away from the building a bit we can surround it, overwhelm it somehow—” 

The thing turns and sweeps Spider-Woman out of the sky.

“Uh, I think it heard you,” Spider-Man says, swinging after her. 

“Ok,” Cap says. “Iron Man, Wolverine, let’s see how it responds to a two-pronged attack. Power Man, with me. We’ll run distraction on the ground, Spider-Man, see if you can web some limbs.”

Tony swoops high to give Wolverine time to get in position, then dives for the main mass of inky darkness. For a moment it actually seems like it might work. Wolverine’s claws seem to actually penetrate somehow, and when Tony’s repulsor blasts hit its back the whole thing _ripples_.

And then he realizes it’s getting closer faster than it should be, it’s moving _toward him_ faster than he can pull up.

The blackness closes around him, snuffing out even the internal HUD, and he can’t move. He can’t feel the armor over his limbs, might as well have his eyes shut for all the good they’re doing him, and his chest is tight, his heartbeat loud in his ears—too slow, uneven, like the old days when he had to charge the chest capacitor.

He can’t breathe properly, fear crowding in under his diaphragm.

“Armor, full shields,” he orders, but nothing changes. He can feel sweat prickling at his temples and the top of his lip. 

“Prepare concussive blast,” he tries. “Fire in 5, 4,” he closes his eyes. There are sounds in the darkness now. Faint scuttling sounds he doesn’t want to think about. “3, 2, 1,” he finishes. 

He holds his breath.

The HUD flickers back to life, daylight visible ahead of him and Cap yelling in his ear.

“Iron Man, _report_! Tony, do you read me –”

“I’m here, I’m good,” Tony says, rocketing toward the sky and as far away from the darkness as he can get. “I’m—oh, hello.” Apparently the suit wasn’t actually _off_ while he was hanging around in blackness. 

“Cap, I’ve got something,” he says, changing course. “There’s a signal inside that thing. It’s receiving information somehow. Maybe if we can disrupt the source—”

“We can at least confuse it. Good work, Iron Man. Spider-Man, Spider-Woman, keep an eye out for possible origin points. The rest of us will focus on protecting Sue.”

“Seriously?” Spider-Man asks. “This is the _Baxter Building_. Reed has like, fifty transmitters on the roof as it is.”

“This is specific,” Tony tells him. “Looks telepathic, a one-way connection. And …” he trails off, studying the HUD readings. “We’re being recorded.” 

“Great,” Wolverine growls. “Wonder how long that’s been going on.”

“I think I found it!” Spider-Woman says, and Tony whips around to join her.

It’s small, just a box with a satellite dish pressed into the top. Nothing fancy.

“Ok, we should be able to get it open somehow, turn it off –”

Spider-Woman raiser her hand and zaps it, melting the casing on one side.

“Or we could do that,” Tony sighs and turns back to the fight. “Any change, Cap?”

“Well, it’s slowed down,” Steve says. “And it’s kinda… flickering.”

That’s a decent description, according to Tony’s scans. It’s changing size and shape and mass, rapidly moving back and forth over a wide spectrum. And then there’s light mixed in with the darkness, the energy readings going completely haywire, and then—

“Get down!” Tony calls, even though it’s probably too late. “Avengers, get down!”

—the shockwave flings him into a building which, it turns out, has (or rather _had_ ) some sort of unnecessary decoration that breaks under the chest plate. Something else catches on his leg and for a moment he’s in freefall, yelling at the armor until the secondary systems kick in and he can get the boot jets to fire again.

By the time he makes it high enough to see the front of the Baxter Building, the rest of the team has checked in—a few minor injuries, but nothing that’ll need medical attention.

“What _was_ that?” Power Man asks. “Something from another dimension?”

“I think …” Steve trails off, and Tony can practically hear his mind working.

“That outline at the end,” Tony says, “and I got a huge spike in energy readings, solar radiation –”

“Sentry,” Steve confirms. “I thought so too. Put out a call to Ms. Marvel and War Machine. We need to have an all-Avengers meeting.”

***

The armor feels heavier than usual, somehow, even though Tony knows that’s not possible. If anything, the gouges along the chest plate and down his left leg should mean it feels lighter. But the metal’s twisted badly over his thigh, and the servos in the left shoulder are shorting, and he’s generally grateful to get back to the tower and stomp to his lab, Steve trailing him with the remains of the transmitter. Peter actually takes the elevator from the hanger down to his floor, and Jess gives them a half-hearted wave as they pass her. Logan just grunts and Luke says something about taking a day off that Tony’s not really listening to.

Sentry. Somehow whatever that was was connected to Sentry. It should make him feel at least a little accomplished, to have finally found _something_ about the hero, but mostly he just feels tired. They won, in a way, but here he is, prying half his armor off by hand because it’s too damaged to come off on its own. 

It’s just a mess from beginning to end.

He sits down on a stool and tugs at the latch for the upper leg pieces uselessly. They’re not going to move.

“Steve.”

Steve looks up from his study of the little box. Tony sticks out his leg.

“A little help?”

Steve raises his eyebrows at him, but comes over without protest.

“Just pull,” Tony says, gesturing at the points where the top layers overlap on his thigh. “Here and here.”

Steve pulls obligingly, the red metal slowly bending back far enough that the latch clicks free.

“Thank god. I thought I might have to cut it off.”

The rest of the suit comes off with a few short commands, and Tony stretches, trying to relieve some of the tension that settled in his shoulders during that too-long period wrapped in shadow. His scalp is itchy with sweat, and the undersuit is damp. He runs a hand though his hair and wrinkles his nose when it comes away wet.

“Shower.” He glances at Steve. “Think you can hold off on the meeting long enough for me to get a bit more presentable?”

“You look fine,” Steve says, his voice rasping, and Tony realizes Steve’s still kneeling in front of him, his eyes dark behind the cowl.

“You okay, Winghead?” Tony asks, cautious.

“You were off comms for nearly a minute inside that thing,” Steve says. He squeezes Tony’s calf, red leather against gold. “I got a bit worried.”

“I’m fine.” Tony reaches out, touches Steve’s face. “Steve, I’m right here, I’m fine.”

Steve leans into his hand, eyes closed.

“I know,” he says. “Just, give me a moment.”

“Steve.” Tony slides off the stool and cups Steve’s face in his hands. “Hey, hey,” he leans his forehead against Steve’s, presses their noses together. 

“We’re fine,” he whispers, Steve’s breath on his cheek. “We’re safe, it’s ok.”

He kisses Steve’s cheek, his jaw, his lips, and Steve surges forward, pressing closer, gripping Tony’s shoulders tight.

_Today_ his mind whispers at him. _Today we’re fine._

Part of him registers the sound of someone tapping in their access code, but everything’s locked down, no one should—

“Hey, Tony have you seen – oh, um. Nevermind.” 

Tony manages to turn around in time to see Spider-Man disappearing back through the lab door. Apparently he _hadn’t_ locked things down when they arrived after all.

“Well,” he drops his hand from Steve’s neck. “Guess that’s never going to be a secret again.”

Steve laughs into his shoulder, his nose pressed against Tony’s collar.

“It wasn’t much of a secret to start with,” Steve says, and Tony makes a face at him.

“Yeah, yeah, come on.” He stands up, pulling Steve to his feet. “I still need to shower. Are you going upstairs, or are you coming with me?”

Steve pulls off his cowl and sets down the shield.

“We’ve got 20 minutes,” he says, and Tony grins.

“Plenty of time.”

***

“So, I hear you two have finally started to do something about the uncanny way you finish each other’s’ sentences,” Carol says, hands on her hips.

“Something like that,” Steve says, leaning against the meeting room table. He’s wearing one of Tony’s stock of T-shirts-for-the-lab and a dark blue pair of Tony’s sweatpants and Tony’s having trouble not just staring at him.

_I can just wear these, Tony,_ Steve had said. _I’m not going upstairs in a towel, and I’m not going to try pulling leather over wet skin._

For some reason Tony had thought Steve would change into his own clothes before the meeting. Apparently not. _Apparently_ Steve is completely comfortable leading an Avenger’s team meeting while wearing Tony’s clothes and still damp from Tony’s shower.

Rhodey’s going to know as soon as he arrives, if no one’s told him yet.

“Who told you?” Tony asks Carol, fiddling with the display. He needs something to do with his hands. Something to keep them _off_ Steve.

“Does it matter?” she asks, “now that I’m here I expect all the gory details. Tony, you first.”

“Not talking about it,” Tony insists. Carol glares at him.

“Steve?” she asks, but he shakes his head, smiling.

Carol huffs.

“I swear, your teammates are really the only way to get any decent gossip about you two.”

“Sorry,” Tony says, but he’s pretty sure his smirk says he's not sorry at all.

“Tell me you guys have at least made it to a bedroom. Did you break a bed?”

“All the Tower beds are reinforced with adamantium,” Tony tells her.

“Really?” Steve asks. 

“It’s not any different from the mansion that way. Superheroes are hard on equipment. It’s easier to plan for it than replace everything whenever someone on the team starts dating or gets married.” Tony tells him.

“The mattress then,” Carol amends.

"Do we pester you about your love life?" Steve asks. He’s trying to cover his smile with his coffee cup, but Tony can still see it from his angle.

Carol just gives Steve an exasperated look. 

"If we left the gossip up to you, Steve Rogers, the Avengers would have been nominated for Sainthood years ago. But Tony pries, sometimes."

"It's true," Tony admits as maps and dossiers pop up on the far wall, vaguely translucent in the late afternoon light streaming through the windows.

"So?" she asks, hands spread wide.

"A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, Ms. Marvel."

She snorts. "I'll ask Jessica then. And Logan."

"Mn.” Tony pulls up everything they have on Sentry, including his readings from the fight at the Baxter Building. “Tell them we'll be ready in five minutes."

"Oh, is it time for the team orgy already?" Carol asks as she sweeps out of the room. "You two always did move fast when you put your mind to it."

"Ready for the meeting!" Tony yells after her. 

Steve just rolls his eyes.

***

The problem is, they don’t really have enough new information to do anything with. Tony has a bunch of energy readings, and most of the team saw a silhouette that looked like a man who could’ve been Sentry, but the transmitter has no identifying markers. They can’t track the telepathic signal. About the only thing they _can_ establish (aside from the fact that _yes, in fact, Tony and Steve were indeed kissing in Tony’s lab, can they move on with things now?_ ) is that this probably isn’t the first time they’ve been recorded during a fight. 

At least it explains how the UFoes beat them so easily.

Steve manages to end the meeting on a positive note, but the not knowing gnaws at Tony. There has to be more they can do, more they can glean from what they have.

He doesn’t have time to track it down. There are louder and louder whispers in Congress about how to control superheroes. They even have a name for it now, and he can’t talk to enough people to make much of a dent in their fear. He’s missed an SI R&D meeting. He’s behind on almost every project. He’d only made it to the board meeting by the skin of his teeth, and he _knows_ they’re back to doubting him now. He needs some new ideas, yesterday.

And then there’s Steve, too.

It seems like every time he turns around, Steve is just _there_. Smiling at him. Asking his opinion. Touching him. And maybe it's always been like this, maybe this isn't new and strange the way he feels like it is, but he's having a hard time remembering that. Surely Steve has other things to do. He has friends and teammates and the occasional SHIELD mission on top of his Avengers responsibilities. He's got an old-friend-turned-assassin to find. 

Some days it seems like the only time he doesn't spend with Steve is when he's at work, and he spends too much time at the office just thinking about Steve to get anything close to as much done as he needs to if they're going to pull off this phone launch on time. (And God, he needs that project done and marketed and out in the public's hands. It's probably the only way the board will ever shut up about military contracts and he's not going down that road, not again.)

It's exhausting. He hasn't worked on the armor improvements in over a week. Hasn't had more than a passing conversation with anyone that wasn't somehow about work, whether for SI or the Avengers, since that lunch with Jan, almost a week ago now. He just feels like he's on, all the time, and where he used to be able to just relax around Steve and just _be_ without worrying about the rest of the world, now he feels like he's messing things up if he's not engaging somehow.

It's like those first insane months of dating Rumiko all over again, except Rumiko didn't live with him and had her own company to run, too.

Sometimes it still feels like a disservice to her memory to even think about this thing with Steve, whatever it is. Which is itself a disservice to Steve, so he's just screwed no matter what.

And then it gets worse.

It starts with a small argument. Something stupid, like how to respond to Maria Hill’s increasingly pointed questions about the House of M. (Tony doesn’t know how she found out about it and frankly doesn’t care. He’s got too many other things to worry about.)

They take an hour or two to cool down and come back to it, work things out.

But then it happens again. Little things. Sniping over the communicators on the private channels when Tony takes risks or Steve won’t amend the plan fast enough. Minor arguments about schedules and commitments. Disagreements over how to cover more territory now that the X-Men have closed up shop. Debates about training. Off-hand comments they both regret later. But they always manage to figure something out, eventually.

And then it—it morphs somehow, blowing up, out of control, and they’re _yelling_ at each other. Raised voices, angry hand motions, all of it, and Steve’s asking if Tony really thinks _killing people_ is the best option and Tony’s voice is hoarse and his shoulders actually _hurt_ they’re so tense as he yells back that _of course he doesn’t want to kill people, Steve, but sometimes subdue and capture isn’t enough. They have to have another option and didn’t they agree on that, months ago when Logan joined?_

It doesn’t actually come to blows, but they don’t resolve anything either – Steve says, _You have no right,_ and Tony whips back with _Who will do it if we don’t, Steve, where’s the better option?_ And Steve yells _There’s always another option,_ and Tony says _If you’re so sure about that then tell me what it is._

He’s hot and cold at the same time; his brain feels disconnected from his body. He loses track of what he’s saying and can’t quite process the words coming out of Steve’s mouth, but he remembers the look on Steve’s face, afterward. The stubborn rage banked behind his eyes, a match for the churning fear in Tony’s stomach.

Steve walks away, his shoulders a stiff line, hands curled into fists, and Tony digs his fingernails into his palms until the pain clears his mind a little. 

He doesn’t go after Steve. He _can’t_.

They don’t talk for a few days, and the rest of the team makes themselves scarce. Even Jarvis gives them space, never engaging Tony directly.

Tony splits his time between SI and his lab and ignores the ache behind his eyes and the hint of nausea in his throat. 

This isn’t something he can take apart and rebuild. If there’s a glitch to be corrected it’s buried behind years and years of his life—and as much as he admires Steve, as much as he wishes he could be as genuinely good and confident in people’s more altruistic instincts as Steve is, he _can’t_. He spends too much time looking to the future, teasing out patterns and mapping out predictions. There’s something brewing in the public consciousness. Something bad. Someday, ideals and clean-cut right-vs.-wrong isn’t going to be enough.

It’s not his choice that makes it that way; it’s just _true_.

Sometime on the fourth day they run into each other in the kitchen. Tony’s wandering through on three hours of sleep, seeking coffee so he can actually make it through a morning meeting, and Steve’s drinking orange juice and looking sweaty in his workout clothes.

Tony freezes for a moment, his tired brain kicking into overdrive trying to figure out what to do— _apologize, he should apologize, but what, exactly he should apologize for he’s not so sure about_ —

“Good morning,” Steve says, not quite looking at him.

Tony licks his lips.

“Morning,” he says. He clears his throat, trying to get rid of the tightness there. “I was just going to …” he waves his coffee mug and Steve nods.

“I was going to bring you some when it finished,” Steve says, nodding at the coffeemaker.

Tony blinks, trying to jump tracks. This is not the conversation he was expecting.

“That’s—thank you,” he says. 

They just stand there for a moment, the sound of the coffee drip the only break in the silence. 

There’s four feet of empty space between them, but it might as well be the Grand Canyon for all Tony feels able to cross it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, figuring it’s better than not saying it at all.

“For what?” Steve asks.

Tony shrugs and shakes his head. He doesn’t think he was wrong, so it’s not that. He just … it’s somewhere between feeling like he handled things poorly and wanting Steve not to be angry with him. And that’s probably too childish to admit to. He can’t put it into words.

Steve sighs and sets down his glass of juice.

“We’ve always done this,” he says. “There are times when I feel like you can read my mind and then there are times when I can’t even begin to understand the thoughts going through your head. Some of the things you say make me want to shake you until you start making sense again.”

_I always make sense_ , Tony doesn’t say. It wouldn’t help, and he’s too tired for another fight.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t want to make this work,” Steve says. “I … we’ll figure it out.”

Tony looks up from his empty mug, meets Steve’s eyes. 

“We always figure something out,” Steve says. “We’re good at it. I know we can do it with this.” He falters a little. “If you want to,” he adds.

Tony swallows on air, his tongue heavy in his mouth. His throat clicks in his ears.

“I want to,” he says, his voice thick.

“Ok,” Steve nods. “Good.” He smiles a little, hesitant. “I’m glad.”

“Me too,” Tony admits. He feels a bit like he’s wading through taffy, trying to form complete thoughts. Maybe he should postpone the meeting and get some real sleep.

The coffee maker shuts off with a little chime, and Steve picks up the pot before Tony remembers he was waiting for it.

He reaches out for Tony’s mug, then hesitates, doubt crossing his face. Tony holds it out, watches him fill it. Their fingers brush when Steve hands it back and something in him breaks.

He sets the mug on the counter and reaches for Steve’s hand, squeezes it tight. He can’t talk anymore, he’s too tired, but he still needs—there’s a gaping pit of hysteria and misery simmering under his ribs, and he just wants them to be ok again. He wants to be _happy_.

Steve pulls him into a hug, his arms warm against Tony’s back, and Tony buries his face in Steve’s neck, his hands fisted in Steve’s shirt.

They stay like that for a long time.

Tony misses the meeting. He can’t bring himself to care.

***

It’s not quite like it was, but it’s not _bad_ either. They’re a little more cautious. A little more conscious of the lines drawn between them, between their masks and their personal lives. But it’s still good. They still work well together, as Avengers and as friends, and if their kisses are a little fiercer now, if they cling to each other a little tighter at night, it’s still _good_.

Tony just wishes it was enough to let him sleep soundly at night instead of staying up for hours, staring at Steve’s sleeping face, or his hands, or the sculpted muscles of his back, unable to stop the loop of images in his head—all the ways they might fall apart. All the ways he knows they might self-destruct, even if they didn’t have SHIELD and SI and the team and everything else. 

He’s spread too thin. He needs to clear his desk, clear his head. Get out and get some things done. 

He can’t do that and still give Steve the attention he deserves from a friend. If the last few months have shown him anything, it’s that he can’t even come close to balancing things well enough to be the kind of lover Steve deserves.

He waits another week before he brings it up. It’s more weakness than anything else – he doesn’t want to know what Steve will do. But it _needs_ to be done.

They’re in the lab; Tony’s working on adjustments to the Tower surveillance systems and Steve’s sitting across from him, doing something he won’t let Tony look at with his sketchbook and a piece of charcoal. 

"I need a few weeks," Tony says. Just a little time. 

"Company business?" Steve asks, not looking up from his drawing.

"Some," Tony says, and damnit, he should’ve chosen a more neutral location for this. Somewhere they’ve spent a little less time together maybe. "But also just ... Getting away." 

Maybe with some space he'll be able to make sense of this. See something other than messy devastation in their future.

Steve does look up then, his eyes searching Tony’s face. 

"I'll be at the Coney Island office, if you need anything. You've got my number." Tony says. 

It's a weak joke, and he doesn't even manage a smile to go with it. 

Steve licks his lips. Sets aside his sketchbook.

"Is this—is this about what happened last week? When we argued?" he asks.

"Maybe a little," Tony admits, staring at his hands, and Steve reaches for him. Tony moves his hands back. If he lets Steve comfort him now he'll never be able to walk away again, and that wouldn't be fair. 

"You're my best friend, Steve," Tony says, looking into Steve’s eyes and hoping the words actually mean something to Steve. "You've been this—huge part of my life for ten years. That's never going to change. But the timing here is terrible. Neither of us is really level right now, and with the team and the company—I just don't want to mess this up."

"Running away doesn't solve that," Steve bites out. He’s holding onto the edge of the table, his knuckles white with tension.

"I'm not running, I just ... " Tony sighs and rubs his forehead. "The last time I did this, the person I was with was murdered because of me."

Steve shakes his head, but it’s not a denial.

"I'm pretty tough to kill, Tony. And I've got enemies of my own."

"But that's my point." Tony gestures broadly. "We lead dangerous lives. We both carry a lot of responsibility. We can't afford to let our working relationship fluctuate with our personal relationship. And right now I'm having a lot more trouble than I should keeping the two separate."

Steve doesn’t seem to have an answer to that.

“I just need some time to work on a few things. Hammer out a few projects for SI, do some work on the armor. When it’s done, I’ll come back. Carol and Rhodey can help out in the meantime.”

“You’ve already asked them?” Steve asks.

“Not yet,” Tony admits. “But they’re practically on reserve status as it is. I doubt either of them will object.”

Steve laces his fingers together on the table. When he meets Tony’s gaze his eyes are fiercely blue.

“I’ll miss you,” he says, and Tony nods. He already misses Steve, somehow, even though he could reach out and touch him right now.

“When will you leave?” Steve asks.

“Tomorrow morning,” Tony tells him. No point in drawing it out, now he’s brought it up.

Steve nods and pushes back from the table. He stands and for a moment Tony thinks he’s just going to walk out, but he doesn’t. He eases around the table and takes Tony’s face in his hands. His thumbs sweep warmly over Tony’s cheekbones.

Tony leans up and kisses him, steadying himself with a hand to Steve’s hip. It’s slow and a little mournful, really. All soft lips and no tongue. Almost chaste.

Steve pulls back, and Tony does his best to commit the look on his face to memory.

“Make sure you do come back, Tony,” he says.

“I will, Cap,” Tony tells him. He needs Steve to believe that. “I promise.”

Steve nods and strokes his thumbs over Tony’s face again. He drops his hands.

“Good luck,” he says. And then he leaves.

Tony stares at the door and tells himself this is what he wanted.


	6. C.H.I.N.A.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C.H.I.N.A. - Come Home I'm Naked Already

Steve's starting to feel like he's spending more time on the phone with SHIELD and the US Military than he does in the field, and the last three days have stretched him a little too thin to be able to deal with anyone gracefully.

"Yes sir," he says, trying to keep a tight grip on his temper, "I understand that it falls under your jurisdiction, sir, but the Avengers -"

He holds his breath and closes his eyes against the repeated denial, only a minor variation of the one he's been hearing on repeat ever since the fire in Austin hit the national evening news two days ago. 

The general hangs up without waiting for him to reply, which is probably a measure of how tired the Army is of his attempts to get more information. Steve resists the urge to throw his earpiece against the wall and wishes, again, that the team hadn't been out dealing with the UFoes (again) when Tony's message had come through. If he'd been able to take it at the time, he might've gotten more than the bare bones of _"heading to Austin to check on a friend."_

That he hasn't been able to get a hold of Tony for over 36 hours isn't helping matters.  
He sets the earpiece on the table and rubs his hands over his face. 

He can go over the data again. The UFoes are definitely toying with them at this point, but he can't figure out what it is they're looking for, or why. But the way they fight, the adaptations they're showing to the Avengers' fighting styles, doesn't match the information they should have access to. War Machine’s been scanning for new recording devices, but they haven’t been able to find anything. At least half the time their enemies seem to know how the team's going to react before Steve's even given any orders, and it's get¬ting harder and harder to lead the team without Tony to turn to in a crisis. There's a gap in their plans, and he can tell the whole team's starting to feel it, even with Carol and Rhodey's help.

He hears a polite knock, and he looks up to find Jessica standing across from him, her fist still hovering above the table.

"Do you need something?" he asks, too tired bother with pleasantries. She's not in uniform, but with Jess that's not much of an indicator for topic. 

"Have you seen the news?" she asks.

"What news?" 

She frowns. "They're saying Iron Man stopped that fire-breather."

Steve pulls up the meeting room holoscreen and toggles it over to regular broadcast channels. 

Iron Man is all over the news. Every channel that had been reporting on the Austin fire-breather or the destruction of the Oklahoma freeway is now running stories on Iron Man, complete with stills of a suit Steve's never seen before.

They say Iron Man has killed the terrorist who's been making his way across the country. A man named Mallen who had some kind of lab-made mutation.

"Have they said anything about Iron Man's status?" he asks, not taking his eyes off the screen. The suit may be new, but it definitely looks like something Tony would design. It's sleek. Economic. Practically _statuesque_ and more elegant than a suit made of metal has any right to be.

Steve tries to ignore the thought that this is probably what Tony’s been working on, holed away in his lab across the city.

"Not in specifics," Jess says. "There aren't any reports of his being injured though."

_So why hasn't he called?_ Steve wonders. 

"Thanks," he says, and sees her nod out of the corner of his eye.

"Logan and I are going out for a drink, but Peter and his family should be here. I think Luke said something about a childbirth preparation class he was taking Jess to."

"Ok," Steve sighs, tearing his eyes away from the screen. "I'll see you tomorrow then."

She bites her lip. "Just, you know you can talk to us, if you need to, right? We're happy to help with anything you need."

"I know," Steve tells her, and makes himself smile like he means it. There are plenty of things he'll trust his team with, but this thing between him and Tony—he needs to figure that out on his own. 

He watches the broadcasts for a long time after she leaves and checks his phone more often than is healthy. Nothing. And the reporters don't seem to have any new information either. He tries to set up some new sims for training against the UFoes but his concentration's shot and he finally gives up around midnight. 

Not that moving to his bedroom—Tony's bedroom, technically—does much for his peace of mind.

He tries calling Tony again. It goes straight to voicemail, a message he’s getting sick of listening to.

He puts his phone on the nightstand, his communicator beside it, and tries to get some sleep.

The message comes at 5 a.m., after Steve's spent what feels like days lying in Tony's bed trying to quiet the mess of fears in his head and wishing for a call back. Tony, SHIELD, the Army, anyone who might have a clue about what's actually happening.

_Wrapping up. Home for dinner. I'll bring Chinese. –Tony_

No explanation. No apology for not answering either his phone or his communicator. 

Steve gets up and goes to the gym.

***

Steve knows Tony 's home almost as soon as he gets back from his evening run. There's a bag of takeout on the kitchen counter and a selection of movies pulled up on-screen in the living room. He's just filled a glass of water and is contemplating whether to try and hunt Tony down or wait for him to show back up on his own when his communicator chirps at him.

“Hey, Cap!” Tony says, “Got something to show you, come down to the gym whenever you’re ready. I’ll be here.”

“Tony—” The communicator goes into sleep mode, as if Tony's turned it off somehow. 

That … isn’t supposed to happen. Steve shakes his head and finishes his water. He casts a longing look at the bag of food before he puts it in the fridge, his stomach grumbling after almost a full day of work-outs and training exercises. Business first, food after. He can wait, if it means a chance to make sure Tony's okay.

When he gets to the gym there only a few of the lights are on and Tony is lifting weights. It takes Steve until he gets within a few feet to realize that Tony's lifting more than usual. Not quite as much as Steve’s routine, but pretty close to Luke’s.

And Tony looks good. Healthier, somehow, than he had before he left—certainly healthier than Steve had expected after more than two weeks solid in his garage and a fight with a superhuman terrorist.

“Tony?” he asks, watching the weights move up and down without pause. 

“Steve!”

Tony sets the barbell into its rest and sits up smoothly. His eyes are bright and his smile wide and genuine and he doesn’t have a scratch on him that Steve can see, not even the usual nicks and scrapes he picks up when he's working on the armor for days on end.

He looks happy.

“You look good,” Steve blurts, and feels the back of his neck flush with warmth. No, this is important. He's supposed to be Captain America right now. Team leader. After three weeks on reserve, Iron Man engaged a threat without notifying the team, and they need to talk about that. 

Ok, so maybe it _is_ mostly about Steve wishing Tony had given him more information. There's nothing wrong with that.

“I _feel_ good,” Tony says, grinning, stretching his wrists and hands. “You have no idea, I feel—” He hops to his feet, ducks to the side and comes up in Steve’s space, close enough to touch and far faster than he usually can. “I feel fantastic!”

He steps back and falls into a fighting stance.

“Want to spar, Cap? I might have some surprises up my sleeve for you today.”

Steve crosses his arms.

‘I’d rather talk to you first, Tony.”

“What’s there to talk about?” Tony starts walking toward the mat as if he didn’t heard the implicit refusal. Steve bites back his irritation.

“Well, to start with, where have you been the last few weeks? We could’ve used you.”

I missed you he very definitely didn’t say. There is a time and a place for that conversation and everything will go better if he can keep those two topics separate. 

“I was finishing some SI stuff, working on the armor,” Tony says, cocking his head like he isn’t sure why Steve's asking. “I told you when I left for Austin. You knew where I was, Steve, you could’ve called me any time.”

“I did call.”

That makes Tony pause, at least, shoulders hunched slightly, but then he straightens.

“Yesterday,” he says.

“Yesterday,” Steve confirms. “And late last night. Five times, and you never picked up.”  
He'd almost grabbed the shield and taken one of the quinjets to Texas, but it wasn't as if he knew where to go. He could've asked one of the armors to take him to Tony but ... Tony had asked for some space, and the lines between friend, lover and teammate were blurred enough as it was.

It hadn't been a good night.

“I left my phone on the jet,” Tony turns a rueful smile on him, but it’s the one he uses when he’s not really paying attention. “Sorry, Cap, I was busy.”

“Busy fighting Mallen,” Steve says, and that was a flinch.

“Yeah,” Tony admits, running his hand through his hair. “That.” He looks up. “Sure you don’t want to spar, Cap?” 

Steve really, really does want to spar. He wants to get a few hits in where Tony never remembers to block, wants to throw him to the mats and pin him there until he coughs up more than half-truths and redirections, but that’s not how they work. He doesn’t want to do it that way. He wants Tony to tell him on his own.

He settles for a glare and stiffening his spine. Tony sighs.

“It had to be done,” he says.

“You killed him," Steve says, the words heavy on his tongue. He hadn't quite believed the report at first, but Tony's not denying it now. "You blew his head off.”

Tony just stares at the mat, his hands clenched tight, refusing to meet Steve's eyes. 

“He wasn’t exactly pulling his punches, you know,” he says.

“You could’ve called for help, we would’ve come to you—” _I would've come for you, I always—_

Tony glares at him, all sharp cheekbones and thin lips and dark facial hair in the half-light. 

“I didn’t need your help. I can do things on my own sometimes.”

It's like falling into the sea—a slap in the face and ice down his spine and a dizzying loss of control all at once. How can Tony think—Steve straightens his shoulders and widens his stance. It's very Captain America, but this isn't a conversation Steve Rogers can deal with alone right now. 

“Threats like Mallen are the reason we re-formed the Avengers in the first place,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. “We’re your friends, Tony. _I’m_ your friend. Helping you isn’t a chore. And I would’ve much rather been there than watching the news and hearing some reporter say Iron Man's status was unknown and waiting up all night while you didn’t answer your phone because you were _busy_.”

Steve holds himself still, tries not to show how much that hurt, how much he worried, because whatever Tony’s doing right now it apparently doesn’t have anything to do with Steve. Even though almost everything in Steve's life these days has something to do with Tony.

“Ah.” The rueful expression is more genuine now, the hand rubbing over his face a familiar tell. “Sorry, it was ... pretty absorbing work. And then I was, uh, out of commission for a while.”

Steve lets his arms fall to his sides. Out of commission? What's that supposed to mean?

“Tony.” He walks to the edge of the mat and looks more closely, but he still can’t see any injuries. Not even a hint of a limp or a catch in his breath that might give away something Tony's trying to hide.

“What happened?” he asks. “What did you do?”

“I made myself better.” Tony says, firm, looking straight at him. Like he needs Steve to believe it.

“Better?”

“Test-piloting the future!” And Tony grins at that, infectious, and Steve feels himself smiling before he thinks to wonder what that means.

“Tell me,” he says. Maybe there really is an explanation for this that he can live with. That they can talk about and figure out together. Tony's penchant for falling into a project isn't anything new.

“It’s easier to show you,” Tony says, stepping back. “Like this.”

He shucks off his T-shirt and Steve has a moment to think what happened to your scars before there’s gold spilling over Tony’s skin, patches spreading to make sleeves, leggings appearing under his shorts, covering him from head to toe. 

It’s the undersuit for the armor, and it just _came out of Tony’s skin._

His expression must be something to see, because Tony stops, his brow furrowing in a worried frown.

“Steve, it’s fine, it’s good, just watch—”

And the first piece of armor slots into place over his chest. Then another, and another, and there are red and gold flashes all around Steve now, the fluorescent lights of the gym catching on smooth curves and slivers of metal that don’t look anything like thick enough to be protecting Tony from the kinds of fights they get into, but there it is. The complete suit. The one from the news stills.

It’s pretty beat up. There are hairline cracks at the neck and right shoulder, and one of the gauntlets looks like someone tried to smash it with something heavy. Whatever happened, Mallen didn’t go down without a fight.

He reaches out, tracing the signs of a battle Tony apparently didn’t want him there for.

“What did you do, Tony.” It’s more of a demand, than a question. _Tell me what you did, tell me what’s changed, now, talk to me, trust me._ He should've gone after Tony sooner. Should've dragged him out of his workshop and back to the Tower weeks ago. Should've never let him leave in the first place.

Tony’s hands drop to his sides, the eager, triumphant slant of his shoulders slumping. It’s far more body language than Steve can usually see when Tony’s in the armor. 

“Spoilsport,” Iron Man says.

Steve scowls at the scratched gold faceplate.

“And take the helmet off,” he adds.

“Fine.”

Tony pulls off the helmet, and the undersuit’s crept up his neck and over his hair now. For a moment Steve thinks there’s something wrong with his eyes, but then Tony blinks and they’re normal again.

“Start at the beginning,” Steve urges, leaning against a balance beam. And Tony does.  
Steve listens pretty carefully, and there are a few points where Tony obviously leaves something out. Most of the research details are fuzzier than he usually goes for, and the entire process of whatever it was Tony did to himself is vague. 

But he knows this: Tony lost a fight. Tony was dying. And instead of calling his team, instead of at least calling _Steve_ , he used himself as some kind of science experiment. 

It saved his life, but—that kind of research, something that could do what Tony’s describing—that always comes from somewhere specific.

"This project," he asks, watching Tony's face for clues. "Was it based on the Super Soldier project?”

"Well, ultimately, sure," Tony says. "But they approached it from inside the brain, and I tweaked it a bit to avoid the side effects—"

Of course. Of course it was. Tony’s expression goes from “explaining something fascinating” to “no, where are you going” and Steve realizes he’s backing up.

“Steve—Steve, what—”

Tony steps into Steve’s reach and Steve grabs his shoulders, the spider-web-thin scratches in the armor rough under his fingertips as he squeezes.

“Those experiments have always had incredibly high failure rates, Tony.”

“Sure,” Tony acknowledges, like it’s not important, “but I fixed it. I’m good.”

Steve shakes his head. He doesn't know how to put the roil of thoughts in his head into words. He doesn't know that Tony would understand them if he tried. He's spent weeks hoping Tony would finish whatever he was working on and come back to the team, back _home_ on his own, and now—

“Hey.” Tony raises his hand, his gauntlet splintering as he moves, the golden glove sliding back off his fingers. When he touches Steve’s cheek it’s just his hand, same as ever.  
Except his callouses are gone, and Steve can’t feel the ridge of burn scars over his knuckles, and he just doesn’t know what to do with this. This new Tony, crashing into his life and looking so familiar and not at the same time.

“What bothers you about this?” Tony asks, as if they’re just having some pointless little argument. Something that can be fixed with the right words and maybe a TV marathon or a few rounds in the ring. 

“I’m ok, obviously,” Tony continues. “It was worth the risk. Wasn’t it worth the risk for you?”

Steve freezes, his thoughts grinding to a halt. He glares at Tony, his jaw tight.

“I didn’t have a team when I volunteered for the project, Tony," he grits out. "I didn’t have anyone waiting for me. I was going to _be_ the back-up. But you!” He pokes his index finger at Tony’s chest plate. “You decided to take it all on your own." He steps back, out of arms' reach, his hands clenched into fists.

"Heaven forbid Tony Stark ever ask for help," he says, the words jagged in his chest. "God help anyone who ever loves him. The minute his pride is on the line, he’d rather inject himself with an _untested bioweapon_ than pick up the damn phone and call his friends!”

Tony scowls and crosses his arms over his chest, the armor slinking back into place. 

“Oh, sorry, are we talking about what you would've done now? Because I thought I handled it fine. Threat dealt with. End of story.”

Steve closes his eyes and tries to breathe. His thoughts are splintering even as he tries to hold onto them, and it certainly feels like the end of _something._

“How many people died while you were unconscious, Tony?" He opens his eyes, focuses on the armor's faceplate. "How many more could’ve died if you’d never woken up?" he asks. "You were the only one who could tell the Avengers what to expect from Mallen! No one else had your intel. And in the end, you killed him. What did that prove?”

Tony's voice is cold through the armor's filters, and it does nothing to assuage Steve's anger. 

"I wasn't proving a point, I was dealing with a problem. You think it would've been better to have the whole team there? That would've just given him more people to hurt. We still don't know the extent of all his powers."

"We could've figured it out! That's part of what being on a team _means_." Steve shouts.

"Oh, so I'm supposed to trust the team but you can't bring yourself to trust me?” Tony’s voice rises, “I was handling it, I knew what I was doing, why can't you believe that?"

"That is _not_ what I said."

"That's certainly what it sounds like from this end." 

Every line of the armor is broadcasting anger and defensiveness and Steve can't see an end to this conversation that doesn't involve either violence or walking away.

He concentrates on his breathing, in and out. His lungs hurt. His hands are cold.

"I've got work to do," he says, which isn't anything like what he wants to say but he needs to get out of the room, get some space, now before he smashes this whole thing between them, whatever it might be now, into too many pieces to put back together.

"Yeah," Tony says, unmoving. "Me too."

Steve turns on his heel and walks away without looking back.

***

Steve moves back to his own bedroom that night. He can't trust himself in Tony's space right now, figuratively or literally. He's not sure what he might do. What he might say.

It doesn't take much. Mostly he only moves the shield, his uniform, a few sets of clothes and the sketchbook he'd been keeping next to the bed. He has an extra toothbrush and never did move all his things anyway. But his room doesn't really feel lived in, and for a moment he considers going back to his apartment, where at least he has more than a few weeks of memories built up against the pain in his chest and the anger trying to work its way out of his fists. And he has equipment there too, where he wouldn't run the risk of seeing Tony and saying even more things he might regret.

_"God help anyone who ever loves him."_

_"What did that prove?”_

He screws his eyes shut and takes a deep breath, his hands clenched tight at his sides. Tony's a grown man. He can make his own decisions, even if Steve doesn't agree with them. But that doesn't mean Steve has to stay here.

He yanks a duffel bag out from under the bed and starts stuffing clothes and necessities into it. He'll go for a ride. Work out at his apartment. Maybe then he'll be calm enough to deal with this. If not, he'll take a few days. After all the time Tony spent in his damn garage on Coney Island, he can hardly protest that. It's not as if Steve will be out of contact for days on end. He'll be there if the team needs him.

He manages to make it out of the Tower without meeting anyone and loses himself in the ride. He drives too fast and doesn't wear his helmet and pours everything he has into the bright city lights, the press of cold night air against his face and the roaring wind in his ears, but it's not enough. 

He's still keyed up when he reaches his loft, and he doesn't take time to do more than throw his duffel on the bed and strip off his jacket before he's wrapping up his hands and attacking the punching bag. After ten minutes he gives up on trying to keep any kind of rhythm and gives in to the riot of frustration and rage under his skin, heedless of the power he's putting behind his punches.

He can remember Tony smiling at him in the dark, just barely visible in the moonlight of their—Tony’s— _their_ bedroom. He remembers the raw grief in Tony's voice when he talked about Wanda and Clint and the mansion, the feel of Tony's hand under his own, the heady rush he'd felt the first time he realized that flick of eyelashes and little sly smile meant Tony was giving him a once-over. Tony grinning, his eyes shining with laughter as Carol teased him about their relationship. Tony calling him "Captain" like it was same kind of innuendo and saying his name like he was the answer to an engineering problem Steve couldn't even begin to comprehend. Tony asking for some time, looking like he was tearing out his own heart to do it.

His knuckles are bloody through the wraps, and he yanks the tape, trying to shake the memories away with them. 

The antiseptic he pours over his hands cuts through the fog in his head for a moment, but it's not enough to fill the emptiness that's growing in place of his anger, and he turns back to equipment. 

He should eat something, but he’s not hungry anymore.

It's such a damn mess, and he's not even sure what he wants to do about it except that he already misses Tony fiercely, even more than the constant reminder of the empty space at his side the last few weeks, because now he can't even be sure that it's Tony in that suit and not some kind of retro-virus-built clone of the sort only supervillains and Reed Richards could come up with.

(He doesn’t really think that. He knows it’s just fear, sharp in his gut. The knowledge doesn’t make the fear go away.)

He doesn't sleep for the second night in a row, just throws himself into routine after routine until his brain quiets down and he doesn't have to think about anything more than the pull and stretch of his muscles.

His communicator chirps sometime after the soft glow of dawn has started creeping across the floorboards.

"What is it?" he asks, taking the break as a chance to chug a few quick glasses of water.

"Just wondering if we were still on for training this morning." Spider-Man's voice is slightly scratchy in the utter quiet of Steve's apartment. 

He looks at the clock over the stove. 

"I'll be there by 8," he says, reaching for a towel. He'll need to shower first, dig out a change of clothes and find a smaller bag for the uniform and shield.

"Well, we can have it later if you want. It _is_ Saturday, and I know Iron Man got in pretty late last night -"

"8:00, Peter."

A pause.

"I'll tell the others. Spider-Man out."

Steve studies the scabs over his knuckles. A few of them have reopened, thin lines of blood trickling down his fingers. He flexes his hands and heads for the shower. The world isn't going to slow down and wait for him to catch up, not now, not ever. He just has to do his best to be ready to meet it.

***

Training actually goes remarkably better than Steve had feared it would. Ms. Marvel's there, running them through an updated exercise based on Mandrill’s MO, and after a brief greeting with the team, Iron Man follows orders without comment. They manage to find and capture the objective (some kind of pheromone transmitter—Iron Man and Spider-Man get it deactivated pretty quickly), and everyone seems to leave in a good mood. Steve certainly feels more optimistic about his chances of making it through the day in something approaching a normal routine.

Carol gives Tony a hug on her way out, and Steve waits until she's moved on to speak.

"Can we talk?" he asks, tucking his gloves into his belt.

Iron Man nods, and it’s still strange how smooth his motions are in the new suit.

"Sure thing, Cap. Can it wait for a bit? I've got some SI work I need to catch up on."

Steve clamps down on the automatic retort. Not watching what he was saying didn't do him any favors last night.

"Five minutes," he says instead.

"Fine," Tony says, unmoving.

Steve sighs and tugs off his cowl. "Can you at least lift the faceplate? This is about us, not Captain America and Iron Man."

"Um. In that case it really will have to wait," Tony says. Even through the voice modulator he sounds a little embarrassed. "I'm not actually in the suit right now, I'm at the office."

Steve stares. The armor makes a vague hand gesture toward, presumably, the SI floors above them. 

Iron Man had followed every order perfectly, but he'd still been _Tony_ , with his quips to Carol and banter with Spider-Man and the kind of split-second decisions-making that no machine Steve's seen has ever been able to emulate, not even the Vision. The capabilities of the armor without a pilot have always been fairly limited.

"What do you mean," he asks, "How could you possibly ..." he trails off. The armor's faceplate is opening, and there's nothing inside it. Just an empty helmet.

For a moment he thinks he might throw up, right there in the training room.

"It's a new thing," Tony says, and his voice is still coming from the helmet, the armor's arms moving excitedly, as if it really were Tony in there somehow. "Part of Extremis. Remote-control of all the suits. I had an investor's meeting this morning, so I thought this would be the best solution. It'll still be me in the armor most of the time, just, times like this I can be in two places at once."

Steve swallows back bile. It makes a certain kind of sense, given Tony's responsibilities and his usual approach to problem solving, but that doesn't make it easy to see, or to face the thought that it might just be an empty suit at his back, not his friend, not Tony, not even Iron Man. 

"Ok," he says, looking at the ground, the wall, the door, anywhere but the suit. "I guess there's more to talk about than I thought. Let me know when you're ready. In person, if you can."

"Will do," Tony says, and—the armor, it's just the armor—gives him a crisp salute. Then it powers down, stiff and lifeless, the way it usually looks when there's no one in it. 

Steve really not sure what to do with that.

***

It's almost three hours later that Tony comes to find him. Steve's in what passes for the Tower's library (it's not really anything like the Mansion's library was—just some comfy chairs and a few scattered bookshelves paired with a desktop station, a few desks and a collection of e-readers), trying to concentrate on _The Silmarillion_ when Tony walks in and shuts the door.

Steve sets the book in his lap, but Tony just stands in front of him, hands in his pockets, head bowed. If he wore a jacket or tie at some point during the day he's ditched them both now. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, his collar and slacks wrinkled. 

Steve slides the book onto a side-table and stands up himself. He reaches out to touch Tony's arm, to offer some kind of reassurance, but can't quite make the connection. Tony's the one who created the distance between them. Steve shouldn't cross it without permission. He lets his arm fall back to his side and waits. 

"I realize it's a big step," Tony says finally. "Extremis, I mean." When he meets Steve's gaze his eyes are tired, his mouth turned down in something closer to a frown than the kind of excitement he was throwing off last night.

"It's new, and I guess," he laughs lightly, "I guess I just got carried away with it. Same as I always do." 

He shrugs. "I still think I was right, but I understand why you were worried. I wasn't exactly thrilled when Maya told me about the project's effects in the first place."

Steve bites back the first, instinctual retorts that come to mind. Tony already knows how dangerous the serum can be. He doesn't need Steve to tell him about it. And Tony's arrogance isn't exactly news. It's just rare that it affects Steve so personally.

"What, exactly, can you do with it?" he asks instead. It would be stupid to ignore a teammate's powers, no matter how they gained them.

"A lot." Tony's frown twists back into a smile, but the look in his eyes is far away, unfocused. "I can communicate with satellites, tap into Wi-Fi connections, radio, broadband, pretty much any kind of broadcast signal. I don't need a phone or a computer to make a call or send an email. I can see through security cameras and hack into programs without touching a keyboard. I have a healing factor. Not as good as Wolverine's was, but decent. You already know about controlling the suits remotely. There's probably more but I've really only had a day or two to play with it."

Steve licks his lips. It's an awful lot of power Tony's talking about, all of it useful, but without knowing more about it ... well, anything they don't know can turn a strength into a vulnerability. It's happened before.

"What about the undersuit?" he asks. "It looked like it came out of your skin."

"Bones, actually. I re-wrote most of my body. The undersuit is in my bones and my brain's more like a computer hard drive than anything else now." Tony shrugs, nonchalant. "It's more efficient."

"You—" Steve chokes on the words. "You _re-wrote_ your body, your _brain_ to be _more efficient_? What if it went wrong, how would you—" he shakes his head. "That's not very reassuring, Tony."

"It's the truth. Would you rather I didn't tell you?"

Steve shakes his head again, but there's no good answer here. He just can't quite believe everything Tony's telling him, and the worst part is he _knows_ he'll never be able to understand it all. 

"I did have an idea that might help," Tony offers. He's hunched in on himself now, somehow smaller with his shoulders bowed inwards, but his expression is hopeful.

"I didn't write over your override code. It'll still work,” he says.

_What?_

Steve's expression must convey his confusion, because Tony waves his hands and starts explaining without further prompting.

"Call it a failsafe, so that if—well, if I did miss something, you could stop me before I hurt anyone."

And by _stop me_ , if Steve knows anything about the kind of failsafe Tony's likely to build, he means _kill me_. Because the kind of powers Tony's talking about—he very nearly _is_ one of the armors. He's turned his whole body into a computer.

"Tony, I—" he swallows, his throat clicking in his ears. Just the thought of it is bad enough. "I couldn't."

"You could. If you had to," Tony says, and Steve can tell he believes it. "And I trust you. I know you'll only use it if you absolutely have to."

Steve does reach out then, pulls Tony close and presses his nose into the hair above Tony's ear, breathing him in. He smells different. Not a lot, but there's a hint of metal there that's different from when he's been working on the armor. 

He fists his hands in Tony's shirt and tries to stop the whirl of thoughts in his head, to just hold on and be still for a moment and figure out what's happening here.

Tony's arms wrap around him slowly, his hands patting at Steve's back almost cautiously. Then Tony stiffens, and Steve jerks back.

"Sorry—" he says, but Tony's not looking at him, his eyes almost twitching, the pupils unfocused.

"Tony?" he asks, reaching for Tony's shoulder. 

"I'm fine," Tony says, stepping back. "We need to go. We've got a code white, heading south toward the Canadian-US border."

***

They don't get any more time to talk before Hill's barking down the line at them. The whole of Alpha Flight is dead due to some kind of meteor-enabled mutant, and now the Avengers are the last line of defense between something they have no intel on and the civilian population of Cleveland.

They’re out-matched before they even start and they know it, but they can’t _not_ try. Steve takes over the SHIELD communications and Tony directs the team without having to be asked – Spider-Man will work on the Avengers database, looking for information on the SHIELD Helicarrier. Spider-Woman will get him there. Power Man and Wolverine will stay with Steve. The footage from Anchorage is worrying, and the scene at the border is gruesome. Steve’s assuming there has to be a being with physical form at the center of all that power, because if there isn’t then he has no idea how they’ll fight it.

Then Tony’s out the door, flying at the threat head on. Alone.

They need more fliers. More than that they need someone like Thor, someone who can hit hard enough that even a god will stay down afterward. He’s putting his hope in Ms. Marvel, Iron Man and the slim chance that Agent Daisy Johnson can do something against this thing. The rest of them are going to have to work on evac and keeping as many civilians as possible out of the line of fire.

“All scans inconclusive Cap,” Tony tells him over the communicator. “I officially have no idea what this thing is except that it’s damn terrifying. I’m going to try and make peaceful contact.”

Hill objects, of course, and beside him Steve can hear Luke muttering about the uselessness of trying to make peace with something that slaughtered Canada’s premiere superhero squad, but until Spider-Man comes up with more information from the Avengers database, Tony’s right. Negotiation may be their only option.

“Stay safe, Iron Man,” Steve says, and starts landing procedures. Civilians are already starting to pour out of buildings, some trying to drive or run away, others just staring at the threat. 

“We’ll stay on the ground. Spider-Woman can get Spider-Man to SHIELD to work on the database.”

“Here goes nothing,” Tony mutters.

It actually seems to work for a minute. Tony gets a name, confirmation that there’s a human at the center of all that energy, impossible as that seems, and then—

“Carol, _don’t_ —” Tony says, and Steve turns away from the running crowd to see Ms. Marvel carrying this being— _Michael, he said his name was Michael_ —up above the Cleveland skyline, Iron Man chasing after them, and then there’s an explosion so intense Steve can feel the concussive blast from the ground.

“Iron Man, Ms. Marvel, report,” he yells down the communicator line. People are panicking, scrambling over each other, and it’s all he can do to offer a hand up to anyone who falls and not get swept away by the crowd. He’s lost track of Wolverine and Power Man.

“I’m okay,” Carol says, her voice tight with an edge of pain. “I’m in Toledo, but I’m not injured.”

“Iron Man?” Michael is coming back to the city now, and Steve’s pretty sure he’s _growing_.

Tony coughs. “Change in plan, Avengers. Get out of here, just get everyone out, you’ve got no way to fight this. I’ll stall him as much as I can.”

Steve grits his teeth.

“Not happening, Iron Man. We’re a team, we fight as a team.”

“Cap, this is completely undefinable. I’d rather you guys were still around to tell nice stories about me than, you know, not.”

“Then get in the air and get us some more information,” Steve barks. “We are _not_ leaving you here. Power Man, Wolverine, we’re helping the injured. Do whatever you have to to get these civilians to safety.”

He’s just managed to help a young woman out of her wrecked car when he hears Tony say _uh-oh_ and Logan says _oh, shit_ , and Steve turns to see Iron Man convulsing in midair, the suit falling to pieces around him.

He’s running before he even thinks about it, but Tony’s 300 feet above the ground and there’s nothing Steve can do but watch him fall.

100 feet from the ground he’s caught by a streak of fire and Steve can hear Carol through the communicator, making a quip about Tony flying better in the armor, and he’s so relieved he actually stumbles and has to take his eyes off the pair to catch his balance. When looks back up Tony’s on a rooftop in the undersuit and Ms. Marvel’s taking on Michael alone.

The armor, he can find the armor.

He runs until he sees the helmet, and yells his override.

“Armor Server Online,” it responds.

“Armor order: Assemble” he tells it.

“Assembling. One Moment Please.”

It takes a little longer than he expects, but some of the pieces come flying in from odd directions. Steve doesn’t want to think about what could’ve scattered them like that. And it was hooked into Tony’s _brain_.

“Assembled,” it reports as a final sliver of gold slides into place.

“Armor: Locate Tony Stark,” he says.

“Located.”

Steve grabs onto the gauntlets and steps onto the boots.

“Take me to him.”

“Acknowledged.”

It’s a jarring flight of sudden turns and sharp changes in elevation and nothing like flying with Tony at all, but it gets the job done.

“You alright, Avenger?” he asks as soon as he steps onto the roof. Tony’s mouth is a thin line in his face and he looks pale even in the orange wash of power Michael’s throwing off. He steps into the suit with a curt nod, and there are dark circles under his eyes as the faceplate closes.

“Spider-Woman’s on her way to pick you up,” he says.

“You get something useful then?” Steve asks, rolling his shoulders.

“I’ve got a suspicion,” Tony says. “Spider-Man’s working on it. I’m going to go help Ms. Marvel. Do we have an ETA on Daisy?”

Steve shakes his head. “Ten minutes minimum. SHIELD’s gone mostly silent.

“They’ve got other things on their minds at the moment,” Tony says. “Get to the Helicarrier, get the data and get Peter out. I’m taking this thing out to sea until we get some better back-up.”

“Tony—”

“I know what I’m doing, Steve,” he says, and then he’s in the air, rocketing away.

Steve clenches his jaw and checks in with the rest of his team.

“Form up at the Hall of Fame, we’re awaiting pick-up.”

“What about –“ Luke starts, and Steve cuts him off.

“Just get there.”

“Fine.”

He looks up in time to see Ms. Marvel get thrown like a rag doll, and Iron Man shoots himself straight at Michael’s chest, his armored fists glowing blue. The hit connects, knocks Michael a few steps back toward the shoreline.

“Iron Man—”

Iron Man sort of _shudders_ in the air for a moment, and then he just drops. Steve's moving before he even thinks, even though he can't possibly get there in time—the armor's rocket boots flare to life, and Iron Man's swooping back above the skyline, toward the shore.

"Iron Man?" Steve says, his throat tight.

"I'm here." Tony's voice answers over the communicator.

"What was that?" Steve asks.

"Temporary sensory overload, I fixed it, don't worry about it."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, Cap, I'm sure, are we going to get this show on the road?"

Steve chokes back his retort. Yelling won't change Tony's attitude, and the rest of the team doesn't need to hear another fight between them. 

Michael hunches his shoulders, energy flaring along the lines of his arms. There are storm clouds gathering behind him.

“What the—” Tony says.

Something rears out of the waves, glistening black with long grasping claws.

Steve runs for the quinjet.

Spider-Woman’s just landing as he makes it to the grounds.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“Take us to the Helicarrier,” Steve orders.

“I’ve just been there,” Jessica protests, “And what about Iron Man?”

“He’s got a plan,” Steve says, waving Luke inside. Nevermind that Tony keeps coming up plans that rob him of his back-up.

He shakes his head. He’s losing perspective. Spider-Woman can fly. Just because Steve can't help doesn't mean she can't. “Go, find Ms. Marvel, she got thrown out of the fight. Then go help Iron Man, something new just came out of the sea, he’s got a lot on his plate.”

She stands up and lets him slide behind the controls.

“What are you going to be doing?”

“Picking up Spider-Man. Then we’ll see.”

She ducks out and Wolverine shuts the door behind her. Steve points the jet back toward the Helicarrier and keeps one eye on the vid-feed from the armor.

Michael is shrinking, the blooms of energy around his human form dissipating into cavernous darkness. It’s unfortunately _familiar_ darkness.

“Cap, you need to get to Spidey now,” Tony says, and another screen pops up, a list of mutant powers, the names beside them crossed out, paired with Tony’s own readings, and suddenly Steve understands.

These are the powers Michael is showing. These are the mutants Wanda took powers from.

Maria Hill’s been asking increasingly pointed questions about the House of M, and she’s far more practical than moral.

“Be ready to take Spider-Man back by force if we have to,” he tells Wolverine and Power Man.

“Happy to,” Logan growls.

“Cap, are you watching this?” Tony asks, and Steve turns back to Iron Man’s feed.

Spider-Woman is in view now, Ms. Marvel beside her, but they’re not attacking. They don’t need to. The darkness that attacked the Baxter Building weeks ago is a whirlpool curled around a faint glow of a human shape. The glow goes out.

“We need to get him out of there,” Tony says.  


“Why?” Jess asks, “He was trying to kill us a minute ago—“  


“We still don’t have any answers we _need to get him out_.”  


The view shifts, rushing past Spider-Woman and Ms Marvel and closing in fast on the pool of black. Tony’s diving for it. Steve tries not to think about what happened the last time Tony used this tactic.

“Approaching the Helicarrier,” Steve says, “Iron Man, keep me informed.”

“You got it, Cap.”

The SHIELD Agents on the flight deck try to slow him down, but Steve’s in no mood for protocol. He dodges around them, knocks down a few when he has to, and tries to raise Spider-Man’s communicator.

Hill meets him on the bridge.

“You shouldn’t be here, Captain,” she says.

“I’ll leave when you give me back my people, Director,” Steve answers.

“Spider-Man’s been useful,” Hill says, her arms crossed. “We’re almost done with him.”

Steve glowers at her.

“You had no right,” he says. “I should have your job for this, endangering the lives of thousands in the middle of a crisis for your own _curiosity_ —”

Hill narrows her eyes.

“The mutant situation affects the entire world, Captain Rogers. Your team’s refusal to share information is very nearly criminal. Soon, it very likely will be.”

“Is that a threat?” Steve asks. Power Man comes into view over Hill’s shoulder, half carrying a stumbling Spider-Man.

“No Captain, it’s a truth. Or hasn’t Stark mentioned it?”

_This idea is in Washington_ he remembers Tony saying. Months ago now, in his apartment. _Public opinion is starting to turn._

“Cap, we’re good to go here. How are things on your end?” Iron Man asks.

“We’re done,” Steve says, his jaw tight. He waits until Power Man and Spider-Man are behind him before he turns back the way he came.

“You can’t just walk away from this Captain,” Hill says behind him.

Steve doesn’t answer her. Apparently he has even more to talk to Tony about than he’d thought.

***

The debrief is a mess. Tony and Peter are able to piece together a logical timeline for Michael’s existence, but they’ve got no idea what he was trying to do or how he ended up with the lost mutant powers to begin with. From Tony’s report of their short interview before SHIELD took over custody, Michael doesn’t seem to know himself.

Peter doesn’t really say much about what SHIELD did to him. Steve can’t blame him, after hearing what Luke had to say about the situation. He’s still trying to get over the fact that SHIELD unmasked and psychically invaded Spider-Man’s mind. For _politics_. He needs to find out what Tony knows. After the team meeting. They'll talk then.

He glances over, and there's something wrong with Tony's eyes, somehow. They look the same, objectively, but Steve's learned to read a lot of Tony's expressions over the years, and for all that Tony looks like he's paying attention, he's a little too still.

It's his pupils, Steve realizes as Logan talks about the mutant crisis and what the X-Men are trying to do about it. Tony's eyes are unfocused. Vacant. There's nothing quite like having Tony's full attention turned on you, and right now all that energy and focused intellect is just ... Gone. 

"Tony," he says, leaning into Tony’s space.

"Mmn?"

"Are you listening?"

“The X-Men are on Universe-ending alerts only as a team, but individuals might be available for special circumstances,” Tony murmurs, summing up Logan’s comments. “Why, something wrong?”

Steve sits back.

“No,” he says. “No, you just … looked strange.”

“Strange?” Tony asks. He blinks, his eyes focusing, intent on Steve.

“Just,” Steve shrugs, “like maybe you were somewhere else,” he says.

“Coordinating data transfer with the back-up servers and keeping an eye on SHIELD channels for news on Michael,” Tony tells him.

That’s … not really what Steve wanted to hear.

“We’re in a team meeting,” he whispers.

Tony shrugs. “It’s not going anywhere, and I can multi-task. I don’t have so much extra time I can afford not to use what I’ve got efficiently.”

His eyes slip out of focus again, his face just slightly lax. Steve grits his teeth and turns his attention back to the meeting.

***

He tries talking to Tony again in the lab, after the unofficial team dinner Tony didn’t bother to show up to. He's tired and feeling vaguely homesick, and he wants to get this figured out. He wants his friend back. He wants his _lover_ back. Whatever it is that’s going on with Tony, the Extremis enhancile, the political storm on the horizon, they’ll be better off figuring it out together. They’re always better doing things together.

Tony doesn’t look up when he enters the lab, or when he sidles around the table to look at the displays.

Code. Layer upon layer upon layer of computer coding. That’s what Tony’s looking at, his eyes wide, irises twitching.

“Tony?” Steve says. He puts a hand to Tony’s shoulder, and Tony flinches.

“Cap,” he says, his voice distant. “Just a sec.”

The screens blink out, a cascade of dimming lights. Tony spins his chair to face Steve.

“Did you need something?” he asks.

_Come to bed_ Steve wants to say. _You said you’d come back to me_.

“Director Hill said something that got me thinking,” he says instead. “About ... superheroes being criminals. She said you knew something about it.”

“The SHRA,” Tony says, grimacing. “Superhero Registration Act. That’s what they’re calling it now.”

“So you do know about it,” Steve says, heart sinking. He’s not ready to deal with more secrets right now. He should have left it alone.

“The idea’s been around for a while,” Tony says. He sighs. “I was managing to stay ahead of it, but these last few months …” he trails off.

The last few months Tony’s been juggling two jobs. And Steve’s been taking up his time too.

Tony shakes his head.

“They can’t push it through yet, but it’s only a matter of time,” he says.

Steve leans against the table and picks up one of Tony’s pens. It’s blue, fine-tipped, for making straight lines and perfect circles. Circuitry and protective casings. Joints and wiring.

“What is it?” he asks

Tony looks uncomfortable, shifting in his chair.

“Steve, are you sure—”

“Just tell me,” Steve insists, and Tony sighs, shoulders slumping. 

“If they haven’t changed it drastically in the last month, it’s about keeping superheroes accountable. Anyone with powers will have to register their code name _and_ their secret identity with the government. There’ll be training if people need it, like we’re doing with the Young Avengers. Task forces, so we’re not all concentrated in New York.”

Steve stares at him.

“They can’t do that,” he says.

“They can if it’s law,” Tony says. “Register or give up the mask. And they _will_ enforce it.”

“How?” Steve asks. The only way he can think of involves—but no. Surely not.

“They’ll set us against each other. Hero versus hero. Simple,” Tony says, pushing his hair out of his face.

“But—” Steve starts, and Tony holds up his hands.

“Look, I really don’t want to argue about it right now, ok?” he says. “It’s been a long couple of days, and all I really wanted was to come home and have a bit of a breather before SI sends me off on the tech mogul tour again. If you want to hang out or something, great, but if not maybe you should just let me work.”

He looks _tired_ , and Steve remembers that Michael was Tony’s second super-powered fight in less than two days. And that on top of whatever integrating the Extremis enhancile took out of him.

“When was the last time you ate?” he asks, and Tony just shrugs.

“Come eat something,” Steve says, and when Tony looks rebellious he stands straight and gestures for Tony to walk in front of him.

“Come on,” he says. “If everything you told me about that Extremis thing is true you still need regular meals.” He hesitates, remembering the food on the counter last night. The waiting TV.

“We can order Chinese,” he adds, “Put on a movie.”

Something in Tony’s posture softens. He smiles a little and stands.

“Only if I get to pick the movie this time,” he says, and Steve surrenders that argument without protest. As long as Tony eats something, as long as they can be in the same room without Steve feeling like the world’s coming apart at the seams, he doesn’t care what they watch. 

The food from last night turns out to (miraculously, in a kitchen frequented by seven other people, 5 of them superheroes) still be in the fridge, so Steve starts his portion of meat and noodles reheating while Tony just grabs an eggroll and the rest of the carton of sesame chicken and disappears into the TV room.

By the time Steve gets his plate warmed up and grabs a few bottles of water, Tony’s queued up _2001: A Space Odyssey_ and is eating on the couch. Steve sits next to him before he really thinks about it—Tony never did say he was ready to pick up where they left off—but Tony doesn’t say anything, just props his feet up on the ottoman.

“Watch this,” he says, then grins when Steve shifts to look at him.

“No,” he laughs, “not _me_ Steve, the screen.”

Steve glances at the screen. It’s just the DVD title menu.

The little cursor highlight moves over “subtitles,” then “audio,” then “scene selection.” He looks back at Tony and realizes—Tony has his hands full of Chinese food and chopsticks. The remote is still sitting on the entertainment center.

“You’re doing that with Extremis?” Steve asks.

“Yep,” Tony says. He takes another bite of chicken, and his voice comes from the speakers while he chews.

“Movie night may never be the same. I have a rather extreme tactical advantage in the fight over the remote.”

“Don’t do that,” Steve says, reflexive.

Tony turns to look at him, chopsticks poised hallway to his mouth.

“Don’t do what?” he asks. His lips don’t even move.

“ _That_ ,” Steve says. “The thing where you talk out of the speakers. It’s …” he trails off. He doesn’t want to say _creepy_ because logically he knows it’s not really so different than hearing a recording, or listening to Tony on the phone or over the Avengers communicators. But to watch it happen when Tony’s right next to him, mouth closed … it’s making his skin crawl.

“I just want to talk to _you_ ,” he amends. “Not the TV.”

Tony gives him a quizzical look. 

“You _are_ talking to me,” Tony’s voice says over the speakers. 

Steve winces. “Just, please,” he says. 

Tony shrugs and turns back to the screen. 

“Whatever makes you happy, Cap,” he says normally. 

“Thank you.” 

Tony just shrugs again. 

“You want me to use the remote too?” he asks, and Steve knows that voice. It’s Tony’s ‘talking-about-science-to-idiots' voice, and it never fails to set Steve’s teeth on edge. 

“No,” he says, jaw tight. “You don’t have to use the remote.” 

The cursor flicks back through the menus, and the opening credits start to roll. 

Steve tries to make himself eat something, but he’s too tense. He already ate with the rest of the team, anyway. He pushes his plate onto the coffee table and focuses on the film. 

It’s no use. Tony’s stabbing at his chicken now, not eating either. As far as Steve can tell, he’s not even really looking at the screen. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve tries, and Tony frowns. 

“For what?” 

Steve sighs. 

“I understand it’s—” he hesitates, “fun for you to use it that way. Useful. I just …” he swallows, trying to find the right words. 

“I don’t want to talk to a machine, I want to talk to my friend,” he says 

“Don’t let the Vision hear you say that,” Tony quips, not looking at him. 

“That’s not what I meant,” Steve starts, but Tony just snorts. 

“It’s exactly what you meant, Steve. You don’t like Extremis, you’ve made that pretty clear. But guess what?” He turns and meets Steve’s eyes, all hard-headed Tony Stark determination without a hint of leeway for other people’s opinions. 

“Extremis is part of me now,” Tony says, his eyes fierce. “It’s not going away, and I wouldn’t ‘turn it off’ or whatever it is you think I should do even if I could. It makes me _better_.” 

Steve stares at him. He’s seen this side of Tony before, but it’s been years. Almost as long as Tony’s been sober. 

“You don’t need to be _better_ , Tony,” he says. 

Tony shakes his head, his mouth pressed thin. 

“I can’t do this,” he says, standing and collecting his food and chopsticks. 

“Tony,” Steve tries, but Tony doesn’t look back. 

“I’m going to bed,” he says from the doorway. “I’ll assume the fact you’ve moved all your stuff back to Brooklyn means you won’t be joining me.” 

He’s gone before Steve can think of anything to say. 

Maybe it’s better that way. It’s not as though Steve’s been able to say the right thing in any other interaction they’ve had in the last day. 

He stares at the screen without really seeing it, the movie still playing, volume down low. 

He doesn’t know what to do. 

*** 

He wakes up on the couch, a blanket tucked over his shoulders and a pillow he doesn’t remember grabbing under his head. The display on the DVD player reads 1:42. 

There’s no sign of Tony, but he really shouldn’t have expected there to be. Still. Even after three weeks he’s not quite used to waking up alone. 

He sits up, and something crinkles. Paper. He untangles his limbs and fishes around for whatever it is—probably a wrapper or something—and comes up with a folded piece of legal paper with his name on it in Tony’s precise handwriting. Hardly Tony’s usual communication medium of choice. 

He unfolds it, straining to read in the dim light of the DVD display and blurred glow of the city through the windows. 

_Steve,_

_Heading out to Fremont tomorrow for a factory inspection, then on to a tech conference in San Francisco. Call if anything comes up. Otherwise, I’ll see you next week._

_Sleep well,_

_Tony._

It’s not an apology, or reconciliation, but it’s not a closed door either. That Tony took the time to write it down instead of just sending Steve an email or a text through Extremis (or not sending a message at all) means … something. That Tony’s trying, at least. That he still _wants_ to try being with Steve, somehow or another. 

Steve gets up and weaves around the shadowy furniture, heading for his room. Even a barely-used bed is better than the couch, and he’s not up to riding back to his apartment now. 

He hesitates for a moment, passing Tony’s room. But he doesn’t even know if Tony’s there, not for sure. And what would he do if he opened the door and Tony _was_ there? They need to actually talk about things, and right now they’ll just fight, and if they’re both tired it’ll be ugly. 

His room is almost bare, the bed just as lonely as it felt yesterday, but he slips under the covers anyway. Maybe he’ll call Tony tomorrow night. Ask about the factory and the conference and just have a normal conversation that doesn’t have anything to do with Extremis or politics or Avengers business. 

Maybe by the time Tony comes home they’ll be able to be civil long enough to actually fix things. 

***

In the morning he meets Tony by the garage when he’s on his way out. He’s dressed to the nines despite the flight ahead of him, an overnight bag over his shoulder and briefcase in his hand.

“Steve?” he asks, tilting down his sunglasses to look over them. 

“I just … wanted to say good luck,” Steve says. He can’t figure out what to do with his hands. 

Tony quirks a little half-smile. “It’s pretty run-of-the-mill, Steve. I’ll be fine.” 

“I know,” Steve says. “I just …” he clears his throat, and shifts uncomfortably. He’s really not sure what he wants to say, he just couldn’t pass up the chance to say _something_ to try and repair whatever damage he did last night. 

Tony’s expression is calculating as he looks Steve up and down, his gaze flicking over Steve’s face. Then he sighs, the lines around his mouth falling into something more pensive. 

He steps closer and presses a quick kiss to Steve’s lips before Steve quite realizes what’s happening—and he steps back before Steve can get his hands up to hold him in place. 

“I’ll see you when I get back,” Tony says, adjusting his sunglasses with his free hand and pushing open the glass door to the garage with his shoulder. “Take care of the team. Don’t do anything stupid.” 

“Yeah,” Steve swallows. “You too.” 

Tony smiles at him, and then he’s slipping into the back of a company car.

Steve takes a deep breath and takes the stairs back up to the main floor, heading for the street. No point in waiting around all day, after all. Tony won’t be back for a few days. The run will help him focus on better things. 

*** 

Steve's eating lunch when his Avengers communicator starts buzzing in his pocket. He pulls it out and Tony's name projects from the surface, flashing red. He activates the call, leaning over the card. 

"Tony?" 

No answer, but he can hear heavy breathing. 

"Tony, send me your location, we'll be right there—" 

"Cap I—" a crackle of static, "—uble in Fremont. There's—" another buzz of static, and then the communicator goes quiet in his hand. Steve stares at it. The communicators are supposed to have flawless reception, and given everything else Tony can do with Extremis Steve doubts static is likely to be a serious problem for him. 

Fremont. The factory inspection. 

He activates the Avengers alert and runs to his room to change. By the time he makes it to the hanger the others are already there, costumed and confused. 

“What’s going on?” Spider-Woman asks. 

“Tony’s in trouble,” Steve tells her. 

“I thought he was on a business trip,” Spider-Man says. 

“He was,” Steve agrees. “And now he’s in trouble. Set course for Fremont,” he tells Spider-Woman. “There’s an SI factory there. That’s where he was going.” 

Jessica nods, starting the pre-flight checks. 

“I’ve got reports from Ms. Marvel and War Machine,” she says. “They’ll meet us there.” 

“Good,” Steve says. “Everyone strap in. We don’t know what we’re flying into.” 

Steve stays on the communicator for the entire flight, trying to raise Tony every few minutes. 

Nothing but static. He does his best to clamp down on the well of panic under his ribs. 

The factory is quiet when they touch down. Steve spots one of Tony’s company cars in the half-full parking lot—the trunk is open, empty except for a small overnight bag. 

“I checked it,” Carol tells him, hands on her hips. “It’s Tony’s. Just clothes and travel stuff. There’s a laptop in the back seat too.” 

“Whatever happened, he put up a fight,” Luke says. 

The front door of the building is smashed in, and Steve can see evidence of repulsor burns on full power. 

“What’s it look like inside?” Steve asks. 

“Scans don’t show any activity,” War Machine reports. “No weapons I could detect, no movement. There are about twenty humanoid heat signatures in the southeast corner.” 

“Looked like hostages,” Carol adds, “probably the workers. They were keeping their heads down. I didn’t see Tony.” 

“He may just not be free to speak,” War Machine says. Steve shakes his head. Tony doesn’t need to _speak_ to use the communicators, or a cell phone, or anything else. Not anymore. 

“Other entry points?” he asks. 

“There’s a back door and two fire escapes on the second floor,” War Machine tells him. “I should be able to disarm the locks.” 

“Do it,” Steve gestures at Spider-Man. “You and Spider-Woman take the fire escapes. Check the halls and help the hostages if you can. War Machine, you’re on guard duty—let us know if anything or anyone enters or leaves the building. Wolverine, Power Man, take the back entrance. Ms. Marvel and I will take the front.” 

“Got it,” Wolverine nods. Spider-Woman and Spider-Man are already on their way. Carol makes a sweeping gesture toward the smashed front doors. 

“Shall we?” she asks. 

Once inside, Steve fights the urge to just follow the path of destruction. He makes himself check each room, looking for anything that might give him more information about what happened here. 

There’s not much to see. A few offices. A room full of filing cabinets. A bank of servers. 

“We have the hostages in custody, Cap,” Spider-Woman tells him over the communicator. “No sign of Tony, though they say the foreman told everyone he’d be coming today. They’re telling us they were locked in here by a coworker and some friends of his. At least one of the friends had powers.” 

“Anyone we know?” Steve asks, checking the second-to-last door off his hallway—staff lockers. 

“Not sure yet,” Spider-Man says. “We’ll see if we can get more details out of them.” 

“When you’re done send a few of them downstairs. I’d like to know which locker belongs to this coworker,” Steve tells him. 

“Sure thing,” Spider-Man says. 

“You really think they’d leave something in their locker at work?” Carol asks Steve. She pushes at the door of an empty locker. It swings slowly. 

Steve grimaces. 

“Right now it’s all we’ve got to go on,” he admits. “We can’t just search all the lockers. If these people really were hostages they’ve endured enough without us invading their privacy. We’ll just have to see what they volunteer.” 

“You’re gonna wanna see this, Cap,” Logan says over the communicator. “We’re on the first floor, northwest corner.” 

Steve jogs through the double doors at the end of the hall, looks around to get his bearings in the large room beyond—conveyor belts, a standing drill press, some equipment he’s less familiar with—and runs toward where Power Man and Wolverine are examining something on the floor. 

Metal. Red curves and straight-edged gold. 

Logan hands him the faceplate. It’s the new one, the Extremis suit. Most of it’s completely disassembled. 

“Armor override: Steve Rogers, 34, 44, 54, 64,” Steve says, his throat dry. The air’s too cold in here, like ice in his lungs. “Armor command: Assemble.” He almost doesn’t let go of the faceplate, but the empty, faceless helmet is worse than just knowing Tony’s not inside. 

The suit’s still incomplete. Most of the left gauntlet is missing, including the repulsor power source. It’s probably too much to hope that Tony has it with him. 

“Ok, that looks like it’s one of Tony’s but I can’t get in,” War Machine says, a note of worry in his voice. “If that thing attacks you, I won’t be able to stop it.” 

“It won’t attack us,” Steve tells him. “We’re fine.” 

Well. _Fine_ probably isn’t the word for how’s feeling, but the curl of fear in his gut isn’t going to help them find Tony any faster. He licks his lips. 

“Armor: Locate Tony Stark,” he tries. 

“Error,” the armor reports. “Request cannot be completed. Signal interference.” 

“What does that mean?” Luke asks. 

“It means Tony’s not here,” Carol tells him. 

“It means Tony’s off the grid,” Steve corrects her. “It means that wherever he is, he’s probably either underground or too far from any kind of communications system for the armor to find him.” 

“Or the Savage Land,” Carol amends. 

Steve had really been trying not to think about that. 

“Come on,” Luke says. “We should see if we can find any sign of him.” 

Steve allows himself to be dragged away, leaving the armor standing alone. 

All they can tell from the rest of the room is that there was a fight, and the armor was involved. There are burn marks on some of the walls. Some of the equipment is in pieces. A few shelves have been knocked over, small pieces scattered across the floor. 

The hostages are able to provide a little more information. The employee who locked them up is named Clark Stewart. He’s worked for the factory for about six months. His friends don’t seem to have been very memorable. 

“I’ll talk to SI,” War Machine tells them, “see if we can get access to the security footage.” 

There’s nothing useful in Stewart’s locker, and the employees who volunteer the contents of theirs don’t have anything useful either. Personal belongings. Car keys. Phones. 

“Did any of you have your phone on you? Anybody get a picture?” Spider-Man asks. 

One shaky cell phone photo is produced. It shows two men in profile and a third half out of frame. 

“That’s one of the Blood Brothers,” Steve says. The magnified super-strength of the Brothers together at least goes a little way toward explaining how Tony could have been overpowered. “Who are the other two?” 

“Not sure about the out-of frame one, but the middle guy is Jackknife,” Spider-Man says. 

“You’re sure?” Wolverine asks. 

“Pretty sure. I’ve been spending a lot of time looking through the database.” 

“Damn, that’s just what we need,” Wolverine says. 

“You know him?” Steve asks. 

“Sure,” Wolverine snorts. “Telepath, and a pretty powerful one. Likes pain.” 

Steve stares at the photo, the tiny screen against the red leather of his glove. Power Man, Spider-Woman and War Machine all report in: wherever Tony is now, they’ve found what they can here. Carol’s even grabbed the laptop out of the car and Rhodey’s moved the armor onto the quinjet. SI and local authorities are on the way. 

He hands the phone back to its owner, a short woman with curly dark hair and an earnest expression. 

“Thank you,” he says. His chest feels hollow. 

She shrugs. 

“I hope it helped,” she says. “Mr. Stark’s been through a lot. If there’s anything else I can do, just let me know.” 

“Thank you,” Steve repeats. He can’t think of anything else to say to her. It’s like his brain is half-asleep. Frozen. 

They had every advantage he could’ve hoped for—a team, the quinjet, Tony’s warning, even Extremis—and they’re still too late to be any use. 

“Move out, Avengers,” he says, turning for the door. “We’ve done all we can here.” 

“We’ll find him,” Spider-Man says, walking beside him. “Or he’ll find us. It’s Tony. He can engineer his way out of pretty much anything.” 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. But Jackknife likes pain, and Tony’s had a rough couple of days. He might not be operating at full capacity, especially if something’s interfering with Extremis. 

He should’ve stayed home. Steve should have _asked_ him to. 

“We’ll find him,” Spider-Man repeats, as if to himself. 

“We will,” Steve agrees. Maybe if he keeps repeating it he’ll be able to think of something other than the fact that he has no idea where to start. 


	7. S.W.A.L.K. (part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S.W.A.L.K. - Sealed With A Loving Kiss
> 
> This is the chapter where the warnings really come into play. The mind control and non-graphic violence are laced throughout, but the cockroaches are one specific scene. There are lots of nightmares. If that's going to bother you, go ahead and move on to chapter 8 (recovering from the mind control and fluff).

When Tony wakes up the world is blurry and bright moving too fast. His joints hurt in the kind of full-body ache he hasn't felt since before he installed Extremis (and before that, before the new team, before he started sleeping more regularly, before he knew what it was like to wake up to Steve). His head feels strangely empty, and it takes him a moment to realize it's because there are no parallel data streams crossing behind his eyes; the information he's been able to reach without even trying lately, satellite feeds and Wi-Fi connections and cell phone towers, it's just gone.

It shouldn't be possible, but there doesn't seem to be anything wrong with Extremis itself. He can still call up information he's stored, can still feel the feeds for the connections he's made, but it's as if they just meet a wall, somewhere along the way, and nothing gets through.

Even the armor won't respond, which is when things come into focus enough that he can see he’s on a cheap cot in a concrete room, and he's been dressed in something that looks distressingly similar to the purple uniforms prisoners wear on the Raft. He’s also barefoot.

None of those are exactly good signs.

He closes his eyes against the caged fluorescent bulb in the ceiling and adds up what he knows. Given the clothes and the relocation, he's likely being held prisoner, probably by a supervillain who escaped the Raft, and maybe one who has a personal grudge against him. His mouth is dry and his tongue feels thicker than usual, which might mean he was drugged. Drugged with something strong enough to account for Extremis' healing factor. Since he can't make any contact with any kind of computer-related device they might know at least some of what he's capable of. He hadn’t really had time for subtlety during the fight in the factory.

(He remembers catching sight of the Blood Brothers, trying to push them apart with concussive blasts, but they were too close already, their pooled strength already more than he was confident about dealing with on his own, and then—he’s not sure what happened then.)

For this kind of silence from Extremis, though, there aren’t many options. Either his brain's being manipulated by magic or mutant abilities, or some kind of shielding is involved. Maybe just a lot of interference due to location—enough rock, concrete and rebar could muddy the signals pretty thoroughly.

Footsteps, a scrape of metal on concrete. He curls onto his side with his arm over his face and slits his eyes open. He doesn't have all the information yet, but if there's a chance to escape this place he can't afford not to take it.

A doorway opens on the side of the room directly opposite the cot. He reaches out with Extremis, but there’s only a vague hum on the other side. Maybe radio waves, maybe an automated generator. Probably just underground then. A single figure enters and the door closes again before he can do anything more.

"You might as well sit up, Mr. Stark. We know you're awake."

Male, likely around 6 feet tall based on the shadow he casts. Slight hint of an accent, but Tony can't quite place it.

Tony lies still, just in case. No point in giving away the game so soon. The man moves closer, and Tony reminds himself to keep his muscles loose and his breathing steady. Extremis gives him more control over his own body than he's ever had.

Not that it does any good.

"There's no point in faking this, Stark." The man hauls on Tony's collar, the cheap fabric tight on his throat, and Tony snaps his leg out. His foot connects with something hard and the pull at his neck intensifies, jerking him upright and off balance. He opens his eyes fully and strikes at the man's face (black hair, bent nose, dark eyes), leans into it and shoves as much of his weight as possible against the man's torso, but still the grip on his shirt doesn't waver.

He manages to get a good hit at his captor's jaw, but then the man's jerking him back by that damn hold on his neck and bringing his knee up under Tony's diaphragm. His vision goes grey around the edges, sparks going off like dying pixels in a monitor screen, and there's a hand on his arm, wrenching it up behind his back until he's on the ground, his knees and face pressed into the rough, cold concrete.

Damnit. When he gets out of here he's asking Steve to teach him something that'll work even if he doesn't have his feet on the ground properly. It'll probably involve more crunches and insane gymnastic moves than he can bear, but if it can keep him out of ever again having his face shoved into the floor by a stranger he'll do it.

"That wasn't smart," the man says. "The smart thing to do here is to cooperate. If you don’t cooperate, the Council of Evil will offer you to the Void."

Tony concentrates on breathing against the pressure on his back. Unimaginative names, check. Definitely supervillain material.

"Try not to hurt him too much," a second voice says. Tony strains to look but can only just make out a pair of heavy combat boots.

"Let him up," the voice says, and Tony takes deep, slow breaths as he's hauled to his knees, his arm unfortunately still twisted behind his back.

"We have a proposition for you, Mr. Stark," Combat Boots says. Tony doesn't recognize him from the Raft files, but that doesn’t mean much. “We _were_ going to ask you about the Iron Man suits, especially the repulsor technology. Many of my friends have a special interest, but since we _have_ your suit now, I think there’s something else you can give us. There’s something in your head that’s not quite like anything else, isn’t there.”

_Extremis_. But they shouldn’t know about that, it’s only been a few days and they _can’t_ have the armor, if they did he’d be able to connect with it, surely—

"Yes.” Combat Boots crouches, his tattered cloak pooling on the floor, and the way he holds Tony’s gaze doesn’t have anything to do with his red eyes or scarred face. “Your copy of the Extremis enhancile. I'm sure you can guess why." The man smiles, a baring of teeth.

"And I'm sure," Tony grunts at the pain in his belly, "you can guess what my answer will be."

"I’m told you can be quite stubborn when you want to be," the man acknowledges. "But I think you'll find we can be equally persuasive. After all, if you refuse to cooperate, as my friend Rampage here indicated, we have other uses for you."

Rampage, AKA Stuart Clarke. Threat Level 4, primary abilities: Powered exoskeleton enhancing strength and agility, limited flight, Extremis tells him. Well, that explains the interest in the armors, at least.

“Hmm. Seems he’s heard of you,” Combat Boots says. The grip on Tony’s wrist tightens.

“You said you were going to ask—” Rampage starts. Combat Boots sneers.

“You want tech for your projects, you can get it from the armor. _This_ is more interesting.”

He pulls something out from under his cloak and sets it on the floor. A tablet.

“For your convenience,” he nods at it. “Give us your notes on Extremis, and things will go much easier for you.”

Tony snorts.

“Not in your wildest dreams,” he says. It’s almost funny really—

Pain, like a blade in his gut, like a bullet wound, lighting him up from naval to spine, and he jerks against the hold on his arm, tries to curl around himself, he can’t _breathe_ , there’s blood in his throat—and then it stops. There’s no wound in his stomach. The ugly purple scrubs look the same as ever. He can hear his own heartbeat in his ears. His lip is split, coppery blood on his tongue. An illusion. Mental manipulation.

“I find most people are malleable, given the right levers,” Combat Boots is saying. “Even the ones that call themselves superheroes. Your friend Sentry, for example, has been very useful.”

Sentry. If he’s been _here_ (wherever here is), then it’s no wonder they’ve found no trace of him. And if Sentry is here, and that thing at the Baxter Building—

“The darkness,” he says. “The big black shapeshifting thing. That’s the Void?”

Combat Boots’ grin is almost _gleeful_. “Yes. Did you enjoy your encounters with it? Many of our allies found your battles interesting.”

“You’re the ones who’ve been recording us,” Tony concludes.

Combat Boots stands up without answering.

“The Void requires fuel. I’m sure you understand your options.”

He turns away, and the grip on Tony’s arm loosens. The bit of wall disappears again and Tony launches himself to his feet, pushing up and away as quickly as he can. He can feel something on the other side of the wall this time, radio, the whisper of a broadband connection, and he reaches for it. Anything to figure out where he is and get a message out.

It’s like grabbing a live wire with his bare hands and he could kick himself, he should’ve gone for the physical escape first instead—it _hurts_ , even worse than the illusion gut-wound had, worse than anything has since he woke up on a gurney with metal in his bones and brand new skin and organs. He’s stuck, his brain trying to process too much at once, noise and light and code and he just gets—lost.

When he comes back to himself, gasping like a landed fish on the cold concrete floor, he doesn’t know how much time has passed. The only change in his cell is the absence of his two ‘guests’.

He props himself up on his hands and knees, pushes himself to his feet despite the sense that _gravity is not his friend right now_ , and makes himself look around. There has to be a way out.

There are two other cells, one on either side of his own, short concrete walls and double-layer chain-link fence marking the boundaries. The first is empty—there’s not even a cot in it, and the plumbing fixtures are broken.

In the other, a large man sits on a cot much like Tony’s own, his arms wrapped around his knees, his stare at the opposite wall vacant. Sentry, probably. Unless there are more prisoners here, somewhere else.

If Tony squints he can sort of see the resemblance. His fellow prisoner does look remarkably similar to the photos he's been able to dig up in their search for the Sentry. He's shaved the beard Jessica and Luke described, and cut his hair, but Tony’s seen wedding photos of a clean-shaven and well-groomed Bob Reynolds, and there's still a difference there. This Reynolds looks older somehow, and his eyes are much darker than the blue shown in his photographs and vid messages.

The barrier between them is the same rough concrete of the floor up to the height of Tony’s hips, and the chain-link fence is reinforced with rebar spars in the space between. Simple, but enough to keep Tony on his side, even with the extra strength of Extremis. To someone with Sentry’s power, though, it’s barely any obstacle at all. So why, with the power of a million exploding suns at his disposal, is Bob Reynolds sitting in a poorly constructed cage?

Tony paces back and forth a little, stretching and trying to see if there’s something different about the other cell, some clue he’s missing, but no. Rickety cot, check. Spartan plumbing apparatus, check. Power dampening cuffs? None in sight.

What was it Jess had told them? Reynolds had turned himself in. He _wanted_ to be in prison. Because he thought he’d murdered his wife.

“Mr. Reynolds?” he says, approaching the fence.

Nothing. Reynolds doesn’t even move.

“This isn’t exactly the circumstances I envisioned for this conversation, Mr. Reynolds, but my name’s Tony Stark and I’m an Avenger. We’ve been looking for you since you left the Raft. We want to help.”

He might as well be talking to the door, or the wall between them. Nothing so much as a blink in reaction.

He checks the tablet, just in case they were stupid enough to physically give him something useful. (It doesn't have a Wi-Fi card installed. Tony hadn't even known anyone made tablets like that. What would even be the point, outside captured-by-villains situations?) It has a grand total of two programs on it: a text editor and a camera. It doesn’t even have a _clock_.

He takes a picture of Reynolds and another of his own cell, on the off-chance his cage is more mental than physical, an illusion, but no such luck. The photos show him the same rooms he can see with his own eyes, just rendered into a terrible resolution.

He paces the circumference of the room, counting steps and looking for weak points. Chinks in the armor.

He can’t find any. The walls are white-painted cinderblocks and smooth mortar, and the chain-link doesn’t give more than a few centimeters when he pulls at it. He can’t reach the rebar, but the spars look firmly rooted. The door is steel, two sheets riveted over a solid frame, and the hinges are on the other side. There’s no way to access the lock mechanism. The ceiling's too high to reach, but the only thing up there is the single caged bulb.

For a moment he wishes he’d gone for a few more of the original Extremis upgrades. More strength. Breathing fire. Maybe he could’ve done something with the repulsor tech. It was an unstable design, but at least he’d have a better chance of getting out of here without help.

Then again, who knows what Steve would’ve done if Tony’d come home able to shoot repulsors from his unarmored hands.

He picks up the tablet again. The on-screen keyboard is crap, but maybe he can do something about that. It’s better than doing nothing.

He manages to get into the root directory, but it’s pretty basic. He remaps the keys to something more suited for single-hand left-handed and types a few experimental lines into the text editor.

_Captured by villains. I think one’s a telepath. E.T. phone home_.

It’s still clunky. The borders are weirdly spaced and the keys are too close together. He paces around the room and fiddles with it some more. Programs in a timer, so he can at least keep track of the hours that way. Eventually, he sits down on the cot and does his best to immerse himself in the code.

A few hours have passed by the time he gets it to something that won’t drive him insane even more quickly than the white walls and his utterly silent roommate.

_Who made this piece of crap?_ He types. The light goes out, leaving him squinting at the dimly lit screen.

Great. There’s no way to know what time it actually is. He has no idea how long he was unconscious. Turning off the light in a room with no windows? It’s pretty obvious they’re trying to control how he uses his time, even though they supposedly want him to be productive. It’s _infuriating_ , but there’s not much he can do about it.

He shuts off the tablet and sets it on the floor. No point in straining his eyes on something he’s not even interested in. He’ll save his defiance for a time it might actually be useful.

He draws his feet up onto the cot and sits cross-legged. Without the blue light of the tablet screen, the room is pitch black. Even after a few minutes, when his eyes should’ve adjusted a bit, he can’t see his hand in front of his face.

It’s been a long time since he’s been in such complete darkness. It’s unnerving.

He pulls his knees up and wraps his arms around them. It’s doesn’t help much. For all that he’d needed some time away to get things done, he’s gotten used to never really being alone anymore. To being touched often, and to always having someone to talk to.

“How about a little light in here, Sentry?” he calls, his throat dry. His voice doesn’t even echo on the stone walls. “That’s one of your powers, right?” He forges on, because it’s better than just _waiting._ “How about it? Any chance of a nightlight over here?”

No answer. He reaches down to find the tablet; at the very least, it’ll bring some relief from the darkness.

It doesn’t help. The screen just looks like an island of light. It doesn’t help him _see_ anything, which is just disorienting. It’s like the shadows have substance.

After a few minutes the screen goes dark again. He doesn’t bother to turn it back on. He needs a better distraction.

He digs his fingernails into the meat of his arms above the elbows and draws a map in his head. There’s too much space to cover. He has no idea where he is. He could be on the coast or far inland, somewhere in the Midwest. He might not even be in the US anymore. The only national boundaries villains particularly seem to care about are Latveria’s.

He scraps the map and turns his attention to sewer systems. His cell has plumbing, and so does Reynolds’. The third cell at least _had_ it at some point. Plumbing implies not-Savage Land, which is a relief. So he should be able to connect to some kind of outside network as soon as he can get aboveground. Maybe sooner, depending on the systems this “Council” has set up.

The guy in the combat boots with the red eyes is probably the telepath. No other way he’d know what to call Extremis, and Tony may not be the most practiced at resisting interrogation, but he’s pretty sure at least half of their “conversation” was based on things he never said aloud.

And since Rampage’s abilities definitely fall more in line with tech than magic or mutant powers, it was probably the telepath who made him feel like he’d been shot and was going to choke on his own blood. So some illusionary powers there too.

Unless Tony can get the drop on him, get some kind of advantage, that’s going to be difficult to counter. Rampage is a problem too. Even if his tech’s not up to Tony’s standards, it’s still enough to overpower him out of the armor. And the Blood Brothers are probably still around somewhere.

He runs scenario after scenario, looking for weaknesses he could exploit. He doesn’t have enough information. He can’t change anything yet. He’ll just have to hope Steve got one of his messages and the Avengers can find a few more clues than he has at his disposal.

***

He’s in the TV room, watching Steve sleep in the blue wash of the DVD screen saver. He opens the note and reads it over again, worrying at one of the corners with his thumb. Maybe it’s silly. Maybe it’s weakness; he certainly feels vulnerable enough, and it’s not as though the message is even anything deep or especially meaningful. It’s the kind of thing he would’ve left on a sticky note in the kitchen at the mansion. Letting the others know where he’d be for the next few days. Whether or not he’d be available for an alert. It’s just harder now because—

Because.

Steve’s slumped against one of the couch armrests, his head on his arm and his legs sprawling. It doesn’t look comfortable.

He backs out of the room and finds a linen closet. Pillow, blanket. Maybe Steve won’t wake up cold with a crick in his neck. He’s done the same for Tony often enough; it’s about time Tony returned the favor.

He slings the blanket over the back of the couch and sidles around the side-table, making a note to clear away the plate of food, too. Food left out to spoil is one of the few pet peeves he and Jarvis can agree on.

He slides his hand between Steve’s arm and head, trying to create enough space to insert the pillow.

Steve jerks awake, flinching away.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

Tony lifts the pillow as evidence. “Trying to make you a little more comfortable,” he says.

Steve looks him up and down, his expression stoic.

“Don’t bother,” he says. “I know what you are now, you don’t have to keep pretending.”

“What?” Tony’s voice squeaks a little and he tries to clear his throat, his hands caught in the pillowcase. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re not human,” Steve says, arms crossed, his mouth drawn into a snarl.

_What?_

“Steve,” Tony tries, “It’s not like that, it’s just—”

“You’re _not_ ,” Steve insists. “And you don’t trust me, Tony. You don’t trust the team. Why should I trust you?”

“I _do_ trust you!” Tony says. The pillowcase rips under his fingers and he drops the whole thing, reaching for Steve’s shoulder.

“Don’t touch me,” Steve says, and Tony freezes.

This isn’t right. He _remembers_ this scene. Remembers slipping the pillow under Steve’s head and tucking the blanket over Steve’s shoulders. Remembers the surge of half-strangled affection in his throat at the sight. Adding _sleep well_ to the end of the note before pushing the bit of paper under Steve’s hand. Steve hadn’t woken up at all. This is wrong.

“You have no right—” Steve is saying, but there’s something else there, tendrils of shadow spilling over his shoulders and wrapping around his chest, and Tony backs away.

It’s wrong, it’s wrong, it’s _wrongwrongwrong_ —

He opens his eyes into pitch black darkness and barely manages to stifle the panic rising in his throat. He feels around himself, trying to get a better sense of where he is. Cheap polyester sheets. Thin mattress on a steel frame. Paint-covered cinderblocks.

A nightmare. It was a nightmare.

He presses his forehead against his knees and sucks in more air, his chest tight. It wasn’t real. Steve never said those things. There’s no shadow lurking behind Steve’s eyes, waiting to take him over. It wasn’t real.

He’s not going back to sleep. He _can’t_.

He sits awake, staring into the darkness and pinching himself occasionally, reminding himself of what’s real. He’s in a cell. He’s being manipulated by a telepath. Steve’s with the Avengers.

They’ve got to be looking for him by now, even if they didn’t get his messages. Steve let Tony kiss him goodbye.

Something scrapes over the floor ahead of him and he nearly jumps out of his skin. He holds his breath, straining his ears. Nothing. A moment later the light comes back on and he squeezes his eyes shut against the stabbing pain behind them.

He blinks cautiously.

There’s a tray on the floor, a few feet in front of the door. He slides off the bed and stretches a little, tries to shake the wrinkles out of his scrubs.

Food. Or at least, he assumes it’s supposed to be food. A little black tray with plastic stuck over the top and a spoon attached to the side. He peels the plastic back and stares.

A TV dinner. They’ve given him a frozen TV dinner. Mashed potatoes and beef.

He’s tempted to just dump it down the toilet, but then the smell of cooked meat hits his nose and his stomach reminds him he hasn’t had much to eat the last few days, and Extremis is still healing him.

He pokes at it with the spoon and takes a bite. It’s cold in the middle. He’s not sure if it’d be better or worse if they just left it frozen.

He paces the room and makes himself eat some more. Reynolds is still sitting on his cot. There’s a little plastic package on his side too.

“Is this the routine?” Tony asks, swallowing another bite of thin mashed potatoes. “Unimpeachable darkness followed by terrible food and more boredom? Are there any perks? Daily interrogation sessions to look forward to? Monologue contests?”

He’s babbling a little, but he's getting worried about the amount of time he’s losing. Every hour that passes means he's less and less likely to be able to make it out on his own. Hopefully Steve got one of his messages, but even that won't be enough for him to actually find Tony. He'll need help on the inside, or at least some sort of semi-predictable mistake to exploit.

Reynolds is the most obvious lever. Whatever's going on with the Void involves the Sentry, and anything involving Sentry has to have Reynolds at the center of it. From what Tony’s seen, he’s just as much a prisoner as Tony himself.

“I had some pretty crazy dreams last night,” he says, leaning against the fence between their cells. “Was that your friend the Void? There were shadows involved, so I thought maybe there was a connection there.”

Reynolds actually does move at that, turning to look at him. Tony waves his spoon at the man.

“Hi, Tony Stark. What do you know about the Sentry?"

"He's dead," Reynolds says.

That’s interesting.

"Really?” he asks. “Because I've got records saying that you are the Sentry."

"He was consumed by the Void." Reynolds says in the same even tone.

Hm. That’s … not very promising.

"You wife is still alive, you know."

Reynolds blinks at him, but at least it’s more than just staring at the opposite wall.

"You didn't kill her," Tony continues. "We haven't been able to figure out why you were in prison in the first place but we've talked to her, the Avengers have, I mean. She wants you to come home."

No response. There are footsteps outside; the door to Reynolds’ cell opens smoothly and the Blood Brothers walk in, the telepath hanging behind them. The brothers grab Reynolds by the shoulders and haul him out. His feet don’t even touch the ground.

“That the kind of treatment I can look forward to?” Tony asks. The telepath approaches the barrier, his eyes glowing red in the shadow of his hood.

"You should know that your meddling isn't doing yourself or Mr. Reynolds any favors,” he says. “We have ways to influence him that you can’t hope to circumvent. And your reticence in working with us is convincing many of my … associates that you can’t be reasoned with after all. Many are in favor of simply killing you and having it done with."

"You're welcome to try,” Tony says, because he _just can’t help himself_. “I'm a little harder to kill these days."

Lightning lances down behind his eyes and his vision swims. He can taste bourbon on his tongue, burning bright in his throat, and there’s a gauntlet on his open hand, repulsor charged and ready to fire on Pepper, on Rumiko. He can’t turn it off and can’t look away. Can’t move his arm as shadows twine themselves around his wrist. Can’t stop himself.

He shakes his head and staggers to the side, and the image slides away. He can still taste alcohol in the back of his mouth.

The telepath grins, all teeth and mad eyes.

“No one’s terribly concerned about killing you quickly,” he says, and leaves. Reynolds’ door slams shut behind him.

_Way to go, Tony_ , he tells himself. _Way to show them you’re a real threat._

He sits on the floor, sets the plastic tray aside and presses his face against the wall. His eyes feel hot and his shirt is damp with sweat.

He needs to find a way out. If this is the kind of thing Reynolds has been getting over the past few months it’s no wonder he’s so unresponsive. There has to be something he can do. If there’s no weakness he needs to _make one_.

He scrambles to his feet and almost lunges for the tablet. They want Extremis? He’ll give them code. Buckets of it. Something that _looks_ like Extremis. Something close enough to fool whoever they have looking it over, if they’ve even thought that far ahead.

Something that can sink into their systems and give him an in. Send a message, sabotage their security, connect with the armor, _anything_. At the very least he might get a better idea of the sorts of resources they have.

He sets to work.

***

They bring Reynolds back after a while, dumping him on his cot without ceremony. Tony doesn’t even look up after he confirms it’s still the Blood Brothers carrying the man.

The light goes out after another few hours, too soon for it to be related to daylight. Tony keeps typing anyway. The sooner he can finish this, the sooner he has half a chance of getting out of here. Hopefully.

He hunches his shoulders against the darkness and writes another garbage line—one of the safeties he removed from Maya’s notes. He weaves armor command protocols into lines about bone structure and organ integrity, hides outgoing messages in notes on energy consumption.

Reynolds whimpers in the dark, and Tony grits his teeth. He’s not sleeping this time. He’ll just wait it out.

The hair on his forearms and the back of his neck prickles, and he rubs his hands over his arms irritably.

It’s just darkness. There’s no reason for the cold lump of fear in his belly.

There’s something under the cot. _No, there isn’t, snap out of it Stark._ Something that scuttles on many tiny feet. _No._

He swallows. His throat is dry. He should’ve gotten up for water from the taps more often. He should’ve done it while the light was on.

The tablet screen illuminates small circle, no more than a handspan circumference. Anything outside that circle may as well not exist, the darkness is so complete.

He’s not looking over the side of the cot. He _won’t_.

He doesn’t have to. They’re on the cot now. Little oblong shadows scurrying over the sheets, antennae twitching. One of them crawls onto the tablet, wings fluttering, it’s six hairy legs clearly outlined.

It’s going to crawl on his hand and up his arm and _he can’t move—_

When the light blinks on again he throws himself off the cot and scrambles to the opposite corner, searching the floor for movement. Nothing. He wraps his arms around himself and tries to clear his head. He can’t stop shivering. Bile is hot in his throat, and his hands and the backs of his knees are clammy. His joints feel too loose and his head feels stuffed full of dryer fluff. His face is wet, his eyes stinging, and he can’t tell if it’s sweat or tears. He’s a mess and he knows it.

He needs to get out.

He pushes himself to his feet and creeps back toward the cot. He needs the tablet. It’s still his best chance.

He snatches it like the thin mattress might bite him. Still no sign of movement, but he can’t trust it yet. He stumbles back to the corner and buries himself in the code until he can breathe without hearing a hitch in his breath.

Then he puts the tablet face down on the floor and presses his face into his knees and doesn’t think about stinking dark alleyways and vodka on his tongue, the smooth curve of a glass bottle in his hand. Doesn’t think about rickety condemned buildings and the fog in his head, a balm and a curse at the same time, dissolving his brain and eating him from the inside out like acid.

He pushes his nose between his legs until he can feel his kneecaps against his eyes and and doesn’t think about anything at all.

***

They come to collect the tablet before the light goes out again. Rampage does the actual collecting—stalks into the cell and looms over Tony with his hand out until Tony hands it over. They don’t even ask if he’s done (he is, or close enough that it should do what he wants).

The telepath hovers by the door, and Tony keeps his eyes on the hem of his cloak. He doesn’t want to see those red eyes, doesn’t want to know what smug expression he’s wearing.

They leave without speaking, and now Tony’s got nothing to do but wait. Either the idea will work or it won’t.

They didn’t even retrieve the rest of the food or deliver anything new. Not that he’s hungry, or there’s anything useful in the flimsy plastic tray and spoon, but still. It’s the principle of the thing.

Maybe they just don’t care anymore. They think they have what they want. It’s not as if they have any incentive to keep him alive.

He picks at the hem of his shirt, making himself look at his ragged fingernails. He hasn’t chewed his nails since before he left home for boarding school, but he hasn’t had screaming nightmares in years either. Not like this. Not even after Wanda’s breakdown, when the Mansion went up in flames.

The silence presses down on him, thick in his lungs and heavy on his eyes.

He has to stay awake. He has to _do_ something.

“How’re you doing, Reynolds?” he asks. His voice cracks. “Do you even know where you are anymore? Do you know _who_ you are, or are you just a container for every fear and doubt you’ve ever had?”

There’s no answer. Tony doesn’t bother to stand up and look over lower half of the barrier.

“You’re wife’s looking for you,” he says. His throat hurts, but sitting alone in the silence hurts more. “Lindy, right? She’s put out all sorts of missing persons reports. She doesn’t seem to know about Sentry though. Nobody does. Even Reed doesn’t remember you, but he’s got all these recordings you made. Stuff about you making the world forget Sentry ever existed. Why would you do that, do you think?”

He knows why _he_ would do it. If there were a way to convince the world he’d never existed it’d be a doomsday plan. He’d have to have proof that his existence posed more of a danger than a benefit to his friends or the general populace. He’d have to be _sure_.

And what would he do then? Not lock himself in a hole. Not that. Leave Earth maybe. Spend some time in space, where there’s plenty of room to get lost and not be reminded of anything from his life before.

“I hope Steve’s looking for _me_ ,” he whispers.

***

He’s in the gym, bouncing on the balls of his feet on the sparring mat, showing off Extremis for Steve, glee sparking under his skin.

It doesn’t go like he’d planned. If he’d had a plan. If he’d had anything but _go home, show Steve the new tricks, binge on Chinese food, take Steve to bed._

Steve looks stern, Captain America confronting a threat rather than Steve talking to Tony—Steve, who holds him through his nightmares and presses feather-light kisses to his forehead every morning and makes him eat breakfast and work out even on days when he just wants to lie in bed and shut out the rest of the world, who he’s missed like a limb these last few weeks.

“God help anyone who ever loves Tony Stark,” Captain America says, something dark looking out from behind his eyes, and Tony watches him walk away, caught in place like a moth in a spider’s web.

He’s running through a jungle—the Savage Land, has to be—rough bark under his bare feet and sharp leaves whipping across his chest and face. He tries to call the armor, but there’s nothing there; tries to pull the undersuit to the surface of his skin to put _something_ between his blood and the myriad ways he could die here but it won’t come. He stumbles, bashes his knee on a moss-covered stump and limps onward. There are yells and growls behind him, and they’re getting closer, but he’s climbing a hill now and if he gets to the top maybe he can fight a few of them off, find a place to hide, get fucking _better reception_ —It’s a cliff. A sheer drop to sharp rocks and a roiling waterfall.

He turns around but it’s too late. They’re on him, beady eyes and reptilian snarls, curving blades in their clawed hands. One of them charges and Tony ducks low, tries to get in close and maybe throw it over the cliff.

It hits him hard in the chest, sets him stumbling back—too far, too quickly, he can’t get his balance back; he slips.

He falls.

Steve’s waiting for him down by the garage in his workout clothes, looking like he didn’t sleep any better than Tony himself did. Except he doesn’t say _good luck_ the way Tony thinks he remembers it going. He says _good bye_ , and when Tony leans in to kiss him he moves to the side and says _I won’t be here when you get back_.

Wanda smiling at him, concerned and empathetic while he stumbles his way through his memory of the last few minutes. Feeling out of control, his thoughts coming unglued between his brain and his mouth. Calling out the Latverian representative. Threatening a panel of world leaders like a madman. Like a _drunk_.

_That’s the Avenger’s alert,_ he says. _Code White_.

_You don’t need to worry about that,_ she says, magic twining red around her fingers. _Don’t worry about anything at all._

There’s nothing left of the Mansion when he fights through the mists in his head to take a look around. The whole thing’s been leveled and his friends, his team are nowhere to be seen.

He stares down at blue and red, at his gauntlet over the white star on Steve’s chest. The color’s wrong for the armor, too dark, and it’s not until he moves that he realizes what it is. Steve’s blood on his armored hands, a hole in his chest, his eyes cloudy behind his mask. One of the little wings on the cowl is bent and Tony straightens it carefully, not even sure why he’s doing it, not sure of _anything_. A shadow falls over Steve face and he looks up. Mallen stands over them both, reaching down to tear the suit off him piece by piece and Tony can’t even make himself stand. There’s no point in trying.

***

He loses track of how many times the light goes out. Loses interest in choking down the half-warmed food that’s left for him. He's not going to be able to hold out much longer. Whatever sleep he's managing to get that's not plagued by dreams that leave him shaking and useless, air harsh in his lungs and all his fears and doubts rising in his throat, it isn't enough to keep him functioning. He can feel his thoughts fraying, scattering, losing momentum. He can’t wait for the virus to work anymore. He doesn’t even know how long it’s been anymore. Provoking Reynolds isn't going anywhere either, he needs to give it up. It's a dead end plan, and he's the one who'll end up dead in it.

He needs to try something else, but the only other thing he can think of takes time, and might not work anyway. Theoretically he should be able to do it: tap into a power source and turn the alloy in his bones into an antenna—get a message out on a lower frequency band.

He stares up at the bare bulb over his head. They're getting electricity in somehow, so there has to be a way.

The next time they come to take Reynolds away, he makes himself small in a corner, head down and his hands gripping the fabric over his shins, white-knuckled. When he hears the door shut he checks to make sure no one stayed behind.

He’s alone.

He better start. There’s no way to know how long they’ll be gone.

He pulls the thin mattress off the cot and drags the metal frame under the light. It's bulky and awkward and has some of the cheapest construction he's seen in a while. It's held together with shoddy slide-in connectors and the edges of the beams are so poorly finished they leave deep marks in his hands, almost scrapes.

It's all he's got, so he better make it work.

He tilts it onto the end least likely to cause the connections to slip apart and wrestles it into place. It takes more effort than it should, and it's rather showing his hand to whatever kind of surveillance they have him under, but he's running out of options and he can't just wait for Steve and the rest of the Avengers to find him.

He reaches for the top crossbeam and gradually puts more and more of his weight on it, until he's hanging an inch or two off the floor. It fails to dump him on his ass, so he drops back down to adjust his hold and try to lever himself up and over the crossbeam. The thin center struts creak a bit when he steps on them, but they're enough to get him a foot or so above the floor. From there he can just about pull himself up. He ends up with the top beam pressing hard against his chest and he breathes carefully, tries not to swing his legs too much. One mad scramble later he's lying along the length of the beam, staring at the floor and willing gravity to bend to his will.

The cot shivers a bit, but remains upright. He lets out a long breath.

Ok. Step 3.

He moves just a handful of inches at a time, levers himself into a sitting position.

The light is still just slightly out of reach, and he'll need to be able to get to its base for this.

He shifts into a crouch, clinging ridiculously when his perch wavers—it's not as though having a tight hold would help him if the whole thing tipped over—and reaches up, trying to ignore the fact that he's essentially about to plug himself into a live socket. This is a terrible plan. He could short out his brain. He could do some serious damage to Extremis. And even if it does work, even if there’s no lasting damage, if Steve ever finds out he did this there will be no end to the disappointed looks Tony will be on the receiving end of.

That probably shouldn’t feel quite as important as it does.

He gets his hand around the base of the bulb and Extremis opens wide—too wide, too fast, they've figured out what he's doing and they're flooding him again—he loses his grip and just manages to kick himself free of the cot frame and jump before he actually falls.

He lands awkwardly, a kind of skipping hop that still ends with him on his hands and knees at the end of it, but the worst of his injuries are a few scrapes on his palms and the balls of his feet.

His feeds are still open, and there’s none of the overwhelming images and noise of the previous time. This is actually manageable: radio signals, the faint hum of computers with a broadband connection. No satellites, no phone towers, but enough to give him a sliver of a chance.

His head feels clearer too. Like a breeze blowing through mist he hadn’t realized was there.

He stands up, brushing his hands against his thin pants. Ok. New plan. He tries the door, but it doesn't move. His luck's never been _that_ good.

But maybe he can get someone to open it for him.

He leans against the wall nearest the door handle and lets his eyes slide out of focus, searching along the hints of radio signals for a communication system.

There. He grins. The chatter spills over him, shrill and panicked—shouted orders with screams in the background levels, reports of failed assaults, casualties. Something's attacking the base, something that's done enough damage to affect the security around Tony's own cell. Or maybe it was all the telepath. Maybe he’s one of the casualties.

He draws a mental map based on the radio signals, necessarily vague for the moment, but enough to give him an idea of where people are. There's someone just 100 meters away. He composes a message, checks it over, sends it.

_Make sure Stark is contained. We don't want him getting out in this mess._

There's a pause of 3.79 seconds before he gets a response. Just enough time for doubt to get a fingerhold.

_On my way_ Someone says. Male voice, clear enunciation.

Tony shifts into something closer to a fighting stance, knees bent, arms loose and hands ready to block or punch.

He concentrates on taking deep breaths and counts his own heartbeats, waiting.

The knob turns between 128 and 129, and as soon as he can see light around the edges of the frame he steps in, gets his foot and knee between the door and the frame and pushes through bent almost double, aiming for his captor's center of gravity.

He gets a vague impression of a bare chest and black boots before he connects, his shoulder in the man's diaphragm, hooking up to the edge of his sternum, and they both go down in a heap.

Tony scrambles to his knees over —Barbarus, that's who's sneering at him now and trying to pull their hands up. Tony shifts slightly and leans into his knees, trying to pin all four of the man's arms to the ground with his weight. He won’t be able to hold him for long.

He draws out the undersuit. It's not enough to really protect him, but it's better than cheap polyester scrubs.

"This is your fault," Barbarus snarls, "You angered the Void. It will destroy you and take the rest of us with you!"

Well then. Maybe those one-sided conversation with Reynolds actually did make an impact.

"Tell me where you keep your communications equipment," Tony says.

Barbarus laughs, tries to buck him off.

"You think your friends will help you? You'll be dead before they get here!"

Tony leans forward, his knees pressing into the meat of the man's upper forearms, his shins trapping the lower wrists. Barbarus just growls at him.

"What about your security files, where are they?" Tony asks.

"You've already lost, Stark, you lost before we brought you here, you-"

Something red and gold flashes in the corner of Tony’s vision, and a moment later one of the gauntlets settles around his left hand, repulsor ready.

Well then. Plan A is apparently _also_ a success.

He holds it up to Barbarus’ face, and the man goes quiet.

v"You have two options right now," Tony tells him. "You can tell me what I need to know and I'll hand you over to SHIELD in one piece. Or," he toggles the power level down to a strong stunning blast and the gauntlet whines shrilly as it recalibrates. "You don't give me what I want, and I make sure you can't go anywhere before the Avengers gets here to wipe this place off the map."

Barbarus twists under him and Tony rolls up into a crouch, catching his balance just in time to avoid getting headbutted in the stomach. He pivots, then lunges as Barbarus tries to scramble his way to his feet, presses his armored palm into the muscle under Barbarus’ shoulder blades and releases the blast.

He doesn't have to do it a second time. Barbarus is out cold, limbs splayed, breathing lightly. Tony strips off the villain’s belt and boots, then drags him into the cell and locks him in, just to be sure.

The belt includes a radio. He switches it over to a broad-traffic channel the Avengers communicators can pick up and checks that the signal is steady. It might not work, but it's worth a try.

He sends _Override Stark-44-67-23-05. Armor Protocol: Missing guest. Iron Man Condition Orange, over._.

The boots are too big, but they're better than being barefoot. He pulls on the belt and clips the radio in place.

There's a long hallway ahead of him, no other rooms nearby, so he sets off, walking quickly and scanning for anything he can access through Extremis.

If the rest of the armor is here, it should have found him by now. So. Either it’s been destroyed or somehow disconnected from the internal network, or they never had it in the first place.

He flexes his left hand. At least he has this much. One gauntlet is infinitely better than no gauntlet at all.

The hall ends in a T and he turns right, following a faint hint of humming motherboards and chirping data connections that grow clearer as he walks.

He keeps an eye out for more guards or full-fledged villains, but the place seems almost deserted. Even his mental map of radio pings shows most of the carriers far off to his left, clustered in a loose semicircle.

The nexus of tech turns out to be a lab of sorts—a network of databanks, a few scattered monitors, a simulation table, a filing cabinet. Tony goes straight to the nearest keyboard and— _yes_ , satellite connection access.

He sinks into the connection and almost laughs. An island, of course. Could a bunch of supervillains agree to make their headquarters anywhere else? He reaches out to the armors and wakes them up, one after another. _Override Stark-44-67-23-05. Armor Protocol: Missing guest_. He sends emails to Steve and Maria Hill with the flick of a thought and lights up the Avengers communicators.

"Avengers, this is Iron Man. Situation currently unclear. Stand-by for coordinates and sitrep, over."

He doesn't have to wait long.

"Good to hear from you Iron Man," Peter says, "Avengers standing by. Cap's a little tied up at the moment but you'll probably be hearing from him soon."

Tony grins and starts examining the databank files. Whoever this Council is (Centurius, he notes. Chemistro. Nitro. Mentallo. Dr. Demonicus. Just the list of usernames in this lab is enough to make him worry), they certainly seem to have their fingers in a lot of pies. He finds notes on SHIELD, on his armors, on Cap's fighting style and the common formations he tends to run. Almost every mission they've run as a team has been recorded and analyzed, an experiment in how to provoke and take out the Avengers. There are research notes for manufactured plagues and AIs and the security systems for major US monuments. The files on Spider-Man are fanatical, practically dripping with rage and violence, and the notes on Luke Cage and Wolverine are nearly as bad.

The biggest project is marked "Void", and the more Tony reads about it the more convinced he becomes that these guys had no idea what they were doing. There are pages and pages of notes about Reynolds, about Sentry, about blocks in his mind. The theories about the Void range from it being a subconscious fear response to it being an entity in its own right that somehow got captured in the net of whoever tried to erase the Sentry from the collective human memory. And that’s apparently something someone did, according to what someone calling themselves Jackknife writes. It’s probably the telepath. The information is too thorough to not be from inside Reynolds’ own head.

They talk about being able to control the Void through Reynolds, being able to direct its anger and use it for their own ends.

Given the rate at which voices are dropping out of radio contact, Tony's pretty sure they're finding out that they never had nearly as much control as they thought they did.

He manages to confirm that it was some kind of projection of the Void they were fighting at the Baxter Building, and that it was the Void itself that ended up taking down the mutant Michael. Apparently they’ve been testing the Void just as much as the Avengers.

He compresses the whole file and sends it to Emma Frost and Steve both. Not that he particularly _wants_ to get any more telepaths involved, but if there’s a way to stop the Void, Emma’s probably their best bet. He searches for the security feeds, but they're on another network, floors away and closer to whatever havoc the Void is creating.

He really needs to get out of this building. A search for blueprints brings up nothing.

"Iron Man, report," Steve says over the communicator. Tony closes his eyes and swallows back all the things he wants to say. The difference between knowing that re-imagined fight with Mallen was a dream and actually hearing Steve’s voice is enough to make him light headed.

"Here, Cap,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. “Sending you coordinates and enemy profiles now. Still not sure about what's happening here, but I could really use some back-up."

"We're on our way," Steve assures him. After a beat he adds, "Keep yourself safe, Avenger."

"Doing the best I can, Cap," Tony tells him, choking on what feels like laughter and a sob at the same time. "I'm changing locations now, may be out of contact for a bit. Iron Man out."

He compresses the rest of the files, sets them uploading to one of the outer layers of the Avengers database, and goes to find a flight of stairs that might eventually lead him outside.

The suit—the Extremis suit—finds him first, and Tony strips off the awful purple scrubs to step into it. The way it settles over him is a thrill, a breath of clean air after being held under water. He feels like he could do _anything_ now, no doubts, no questions asked. He pulls up the armor’s record of the building and flies the rest of the way out, taking corners too fast and not caring because after the silence and dimming of his world in that damn cell he’ll take Extremis to its limits if he can, he _wants_ to, and there’s nothing like the joy of feeling the armor respond to his thoughts for making him feel alive.

He knocks the last door off its hinges on his way out and swoops straight for the sky, opens his brain to the exosphere and lets the information wash over him.

News reports—Nothing about him, so SI is keeping a pretty tight lid on his disappearance. The Avengers finally put the UFoes behind bars again (There’s a picture of the team. Luke looks proud, Jessica’s got her gliding wings spread and Spiderman and Wolverine are barely in the shot at all. Steve looks terribly pleased with himself). The Dow is up, the tech conference he was supposed to be at got some decent press, and the public doesn’t seem to be calling for superhero accountability with pitchforks yet.

He goes further, chasing down SHIELD files and satellite maps and—

_Nothing, there’s nothing, silence and darkness as far as he can reach—_

The armor shudders in midair and he jerks back to the present. _Damn it_. He can’t afford this kind of weakness right now.

Below him, a bunch of villains he recognizes and other people he can only suppose are villains are confronting the gaping maw of darkness that is the Void.

It’s bigger than Tony remembers. He watches Rampage try to take it head-on and winces. There’s no way his exoskeleton and minor force field will protect him for long from the creeping helplessness inside that black mass. You’d think he would’ve learned something from watching what happened to Tony at the Baxter Building.

The rest of the suits are on their way. The Avengers are coming, the quinjet is ten minutes out, and if he wanted to Tony could probably just hang out above the battle and wait to see who came out on top.

But he’s pretty sure, even without the visual evidence of half the remaining Raft escapees looking like they don’t know what to do, that the Void is going to be the last one standing when this is done, and Tony can’t let that happen. The villains may have designs on world domination, or genocide, or constructing huge monsters from sea-life DNA, but from what he’s seen, the Void just has _hunger_ and _fear_ and a desire to destroy.

He needs to find Reynolds. Reynolds is still the key to all this.

He queues a few scans—infrared, face-matching, energy signatures—and makes a quick circuit of the base. It’s right on the water, butting up against craggy, moss-covered rocks and angry surf. There’s a half-circle of sea grass-covered dunes extending nearly 200 meters in radius on the other side of the building, sloping to a bare beach with a single dock on the south end and rising to a scraggly stand of trees in the north. Some of the milling people on the ground seem to be making for the dock and its handful of boats. Tony makes a list of names and descriptions for SHIELD just in case any of them do happen to get away and is just about to dive in and see if he can maybe lay down some tracers when the one of the scans returns an alert—Reynolds is on the ground, between the base and where the Void is taking on Bushwhacker and the Blood Brothers.

Tony lands in front of him.

“Mr. Reynolds,” he says. “You’re going to need to come with me now.”

Reynolds just stares past him, expression vacant.

Tony grabs his shoulder, but the man still doesn’t move.

“Ok then, here’s hoping moving you doesn’t get that thing’s attention.”

He picks Reynolds up, pinning his arms to limit any struggling, and takes him to the opposite side of the clearing. The most defensible place probably would’ve been the base, but for something like the Void space is more important. That dark mass could fill a hallway, fill a room, swallow them whole and there’d be nothing Tony could do to stop it.

Someone’s noticed that Reynolds is missing now—Scarecrow, Vermin and Grey Gargoyle are running for him, and Tony sets Reynolds down and launches himself airborne again. A little distance will give him some insulation from Scarecrow’s fear generation and Gargoyle’s fists and—the Void is following them.

_Fuck_. Tony takes a deep breath and makes a few defensive sweeps, knocking Scarecrow back with a sonic blast and keeping and Grey Gargoyle in check with a few well-placed repulsor blasts.

And then the Void is within shooting distance, the darkness coalescing into a hulking wildcat with three rows of teeth, and its scream goes straight through the armor and all the way down his spine. He’s pretty sure his hair is standing on end inside the helmet.

He loses track of time for a while, the whole of his experience narrowed down to dodge and shoot and bank here, roll there. At some point the suit tells him Typhoid Mary and Vermin are in range, but he can’t spare much attention for them beyond maintaining the perimeter around Reynolds. Grey Gargoyle goes down in a heap of wriggling darkness and then the Void is focused on Tony, and Reynolds, and Tony’s only got one more idea to try. He needs more _time_.

The first he knows he's not alone on the battlefield is a flicker of blue in the corner of his vision. Then Steve's shield arcs around to smash Typhoid Mary’s sword out of her hand, and Tony grins to himself, opening the Avengers communicator channel.

"Welcome to the party, Cap," he says, firing a repulsor blast at the shifting mass that is the Void. "Careful with that shield though, we've got bigger issues than Mary at the moment."

"Tony!" He can practically hear the smile in Steve's voice, which is pretty nice after all the nightmares and doubts and lack of restful sleep. Tony could really just curl up under a blanket and watch Steve smile for a few hours at this point.

"You alright?" Steve asks.

"I'm good Cap,” Tony tells him, because he has to be good right now. “It's Bob Reynolds who needs some help. There's something weird going on with his memories and constant exposure to supervillains has not helped matters."

Steve directs Wolverine, Spider-Man and Power Man to help guard Reynolds. They fan out in a loose semi-circle, and Wolverine actually growls at Vermin.

"Yeah, I read the file,” Steve says. “Emma thinks she might be able to help—we picked her up along the way. Any ideas to buy her time?"

"Just one." Tony shifts his balance and lets himself fall into a dive, flies a few loops around the Void to make sure he has its attention and points himself toward the coastline. The mass of darkness and rage obligingly follows him, long tentacles batting at him as if he were a fly.

"That's your plan?" Spider-Woman asks, even as he sees her rising to join him. "Distract and diversion?"

"Do you have another one?" Tony asks, throwing himself out of the way of the searching limbs. He's not sure what will happen to Extremis if it catches hold of him. Centurius' notes weren't that extensive. Considering what it did to Michael, what just the shadow of the Void did to him before Extremis, he's not eager to find out.

"No, I was just hoping for something a little more inspired," Spider-Woman says, throwing bolts into the thing’s center mass. It doesn't even seem to notice.

"Emma's working on Bob," Steve cuts in. "I've called in the Fantastic Four for reinforcements."

Tony banks hard and rockets higher.

"Already covered, Cap, but I suppose they can still help out."

"What do you—oh."

Tony grins fiercely to himself and puts most of the suit he's in on autopilot. He's going to need most of his concentration to direct the other armors and piece all their visual feeds into a picture that makes sense to his brain. He puts three of them to work generating a force field around the little huddle that is Reynolds and Emma, with a fourth on standby inside just in case Reynolds tries anything, or they need to show him any of the data they've collected on him.

Even as he directs the rest of the armors to converge on the Void and starts firing at what now resembles a spikey black sea monster, he can see Steve squaring up with Typhoid Mary just outside the force field, Power Man and Spider-Man taking on Bushwhacker closer to the base and Logan running after Vermin, claws out and both of them snarling. A quick scan reveals that most of the rest of the Council have scattered, some of them onto the boats and others into the forest. He sends out an alert to SHIELD for where to start looking and rotates through his weapons—energy beams, nets and lasers, missiles and bullets and vibration frequencies and concussion blasts. None of it works.

"Tony, tell me you're in one of these things," Carol says over the communicator. She's flying low and fast over the grass between the compound and the shoreline.

"You think I'd miss this?" he asks, flying a tight corkscrew between the Void's waving arms. It's started growling about destruction and shadows and fear. The air around it is actually becoming noticeably darker than the rest of the atmosphere, which is really not at all reassuring.

"Oh thank God," Carol says. "Any advice on fighting this thing?"

"Try not to touch it," Tony says, thinking of pitch-black eyes and scuttling noises in the dark.

"Shit," Spider-Woman says, and Tony pivots and flies toward her. She's clutching her head, just hovering in place, and there's another tentacle coming down—

One of the suits pushes her out of the way, but then _it's_ hit and Tony can feel the Void through Extremis. He feels the suit go dead like a spreading stain in his mind, and he cuts the connection as fast as he can.

It's not quite fast enough. There are shadows at the edges of his vision now, in every vid feed he taps into, and he can feel the cold weight of fear settling heavy in his chest.

"Jess!" Carol yells, and Tony vaguely registers her stopping Spider-Woman's fall, sees Wolverine and Spider-Man and Power Man and Cap shifting their focus to the Void because—

Because it's in his head, and it knows his plan, and now it's trying to get back to Reynolds.

_No._ Tony tells himself. _No, no, this is the only chance we've got—_

He turns himself—all the suits—back toward the force field. Distraction has failed, but if they can hold out long enough—

There's dark laughter in his mind and a rising sense of defeat dragging at his thoughts, but he shakes it away. They can do this. They will. They have to.

He lands next to Steve and turns his attention to the force field. Sue's there now, adding another layer of protection. Through the dual shields Tony can see Reynolds crouched on the ground, Emma's hand on his shoulder, both of them completely still.

"Has Emma said anything?" he asks, but Steve shakes his head.

"Just that she needs time to pull this off."

"Great."

"You alright?" Steve asks again, rolling his shoulders.

"So far," Tony says, stepping up to Steve's side. The suits report the Void as the only threat remaining—Typhoid Mary is lying on the grass about 20 meters away, Bushwhacker’s caught in a neatly wrapped web and there's no sign of Vermin. With Johnny, Ben, Reed and Sue there are a grand total of 10 superheroes between the Void and its goal, and they're just going to have to hope that's enough.

Ms. Marvel's flying straight at the thing, arcing through the slate grey sky, and Spider-Woman is looking a little wobbly but no less determined behind her, and it takes Tony a minute to figure out what Carol must be thinking, with the powers at her disposal, before she's already within the Void's reach.

"Carol, don't—" he tries, but she's yelling _Let's see what you do with a little less power!_ and it's too late.

For a moment, it almost looks like it works. The darkness flickers through shapes—now a towering dragon, now a grinning gunman, an ax, a silhouette of a man—but then it settles again, amorphous but as large as ever, and Carol is just falling, eyes closed and body limp.

"Wolverine, Spider-Woman, to Ms. Marvel!" Steve yells, and Tony watches them nod through the armors' cameras and adds yet another shield to the barrier.

They don't have a good way to fight this thing. Tony's pouring all of the energy he’s got into shielding Reynolds and Emma, but it's going to run out sometime, and the darkness around it is starting to grow. There are storm clouds brewing, and the sense of a ticking clock at the back of his mind is getting louder by the second. Steve's at his back, shouting orders and keeping most of the attacks off him. Every once in a while Tony catches sight of the shield arcing through the air. He can see Ms. Marvel looking murderous as she flies circles around the darkness—now a wolf, now a thunderstorm, something with more teeth than Tony’s ever seen in one place before—Spider-Woman blasting it repeatedly from above, Spider-Man trying to web down the creeping tendrils.

Reed turning himself into a physical barrier between the Void and the weakening force field. Power Man and Wolverine and the Thing standing guard around the perimeter, waiting for something to get close enough to hit.

Another suit goes down, and it’s even worse than the first time, like all the connections he’s built with Extremis are getting coated in sticky black plastic. Insulated. Closed off.

He can’t reach the exosphere anymore. He can’t find any phone towers.

A third suit crashes to the ground, the helmet so mangled there’s no way he would’ve survived if he were in it, and he can’t access the communicators, even though there’s one _in the suit_ , even though Steve has one less than six feet away.

He can’t move fast enough, can’t _think_ fast enough to get the suits out of the way anymore, and when a giant dark paw bats a fourth suit out of the sky he loses all of them and stumbles to his knees, ears ringing, even his normal vision going grey and pixelated.

Steve’s shouting at him but he can’t quite parse the words, just _Tony_ and something he knows is English but he just can’t understand it right now.

There’s a wall of darkness welling up inside him, choking him, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

 

***

He wakes up on his back, the sky a lightly cloudy blue above him and the armor in pieces around him. Carol is leaning over him, wiping something cold and wet over his face. It stings.

“Ow,” he says, blinking hard, and she leans back.

“It’s just saltwater Tony, I thought you’d prefer it to having blood all over your face.”

“I have blood on my face?” he asks, touching his nose and mouth gingerly. His beard’s probably looking pretty ragged by now, but the skin all feels normal.

She holds up a red-stained rag. It looks suspiciously like it might’ve been part of Luke’s shirt.

“Pretty sure you had a nosebleed when that thing did whatever it did to you,” she explains.

“It got into the armors,” Tony tells her, and leans up onto his elbows. At least the undersuit’s still in place. If Carol’s wiping his face with a rag of Luke’s shirt he doesn’t want to know what she’d come up with if he were naked.

When he sits up he meets Steve’s eyes, and the look Steve gives him is so loaded with fierce emotion that Tony's not sure if he'd going to be punched or kissed. But then Spider-Man's there, taking about what he found on Tony’s laptop, and the algorithm he used to track the signals the armor was sending to try and find Tony, and Carol's pulling him into a warm hug and Steve just kinda stands there, watching.

Tony's not that picky, he'd take a pat on the back at this point. _Glad you’re ok_ , or even _Good job, Avenger_. Anything.

“Where’s Reynolds?” he asks, looking around. The rest of his teammates are in a loose circle around him, Spider-Woman and Wolverine in close conversation, Power Man staring out at the windswept landscape like it personally offends him.

“Emma’s with him,” Carol says, her arms still around his shoulders. “She says he should be mostly himself now. Jackknife really did a number on him, and there was some damage even before he went to prison. He turned into Sentry right after you fell over.”

Tony ignores that. He didn’t _fall over,_ he got knocked out by a seething personification of fear and darkness.

“What happened to the Void?” he asks instead of commenting.

“Vanished when Sentry showed up,” Spider-Man says, his hands miming a little puff of smoke. “Poof. Goodbye evil destruction beast, hello blond dude in gold and blue.”

“Emma says there’s some kind of symbiotic connection there, but she’s not clear on what it is yet,” Carol adds. “She’s implicated Mastermind as probably being the one who messed his brain up in the first place.”

“Ok,” Tony says. “Well then. Guess that means we win this one.”

“Yeah, great,” Spider-Man says. ‘Winning. I like winning. We should win more often.”

“Can you walk, do you think?” Carol asks, leaning back. “We’d like to get Reynolds into custody, and I’d rather not carry you all the way to the quinjet.”

“Yeah, ok,” Tony says. “Help me up.”

It’s Steve who gives him a hand, shouldering his way into the little circle of superheroes. His grip is tight on Tony’s elbow, steadying when Tony wavers a bit.

“Hi,” Tony says. It’s silly, but everything else he wants to say is too complicated to put into words right now.

“Hi yourself,” Steve says. He looks a little surprised, but he’s smiling.

“Ok, can you guys stare into each other’s eyes on the quinjet?” Spider-Woman asks, plaintive. “I’d really like to get to SHIELD and do my debrief and get home for a shower.”

Steve just chuckles and guides Tony toward the plane; Tony can feel the heat of Steve’s hand hovering over his shoulder blade.

“Wait.” Tony turns back to call the armor.

“Don’t,” Steve says as the pieces rise out of the grass. “Tony, just send it back to the Tower. If that _thing_ got in there …”

Tony gives him an incredulous look.

“I just don’t think you should wear it until you’ve run a few checks,” Steve says, palms up, placating.

Tony doesn’t want to admit that he wants that extra layer of protection even if Extremis _is_ compromised somehow.

But Steve’s right. The armor contains too much power to risk.

He nods and reaches out to the rest of the suits, runs commands to assemble, to return to their storage areas. Some of them are going to need a lot of work, but none are too damaged to fly.

“Come on,” Steve says, and this time his hand on Tony is firm. A reassuring weight against his back, and Tony leans into it, unable to help himself.

Home. He wants to go home.


	8. S.W.A.L.K. (part 2)

The SHIELD agents are completely unreasonable, Tony decides, fighting the urge to itch the skin around his IV line and wishing once again that he'd been able to fly the armor back to the tower after the battle. Even spending the whole flight pressed against Steve’s side wasn’t quite worth all _this_. He could’ve done that in the Tower. He should’ve insisted on being dropped off with Spider-Man.

He _had_ wanted to keep guard on Reynolds though. Just in case. Emma had kept shooting him little looks from the corner she'd tucked the man into, but Tony had kept his silence the whole way to the Helicarrier. Had, apparently, held his tongue on more than the SHIELD staff wanted him too, if the dark glares he’s getting from the nurses and the harried-looking agent who's been assigned to him are anything to go by. 

"Mr. Stark, are you sure there's nothing else you can remember?" the agent asks again, poking at his tablet just a little too hard. “Reports from the field team we sent indicate over twenty villains sighted or captured in and around the location you were being held in, but all the databases we can find seem to be incomplete. You don’t have any more information about why they had gathered together?”

"I was mostly focused on getting out at the time," Tony tells him. "I didn't really have time or opportunity to delve into the fine details of their plan. If they even had one."

Poke. Frown. Poke again. Tony very determinedly doesn’t mess with his screen settings. The effort is not improving his headache.

"You said earlier that they seemed ready for you. Could you describe those conditions again?"

Tony shrugs and leans back in his chair. "No, sorry," he lies through his smile, "I'm not sure what they had going on. It was very secure. I'm not even sure how much of it was about me and how much was for Reynolds." He thinks about manipulating the security cameras, filling the audio with live streaming radio instead of this probing interview, but that would rather show his hand.

"Captain America says he received a message from you. How were you able to send it?"

"Failsafe in the armors," Tony lies again. It’s close enough, and he’s not telling SHIELD about Extremis unless he absolutely has to.

"And the message you sent to Director Hill. Our analysis of the villains’ systems indicates no record of the compression algorithm found on those files. How were you able to encrypt them?”

Tony smiles. “Now you’re just fishing for new software. Unfortunately, SHIELD only receives my services for a contracted fee.”

The agent licks his lips and pokes at his tablet some more. The nurse takes out Tony’s IV and leaves the room.

Tony gives in and searches the security system for a moment—Reynolds in power-dampening restraints in a cell, Emma talking to someone Tony vaguely recognizes as being involved with the psych ward, Luke and Jessica in the cafeteria and—there. Steve is on the bridge, having what looks like a heated argument with Maria Hill.

“What about when you were kidnapped? The SI investigation notes—“

"Agent, since that's the fourth time you've asked that question and my answer's not changing, I think we're done."

The agent glares at him again.

“Mr. Stark, your debrief—“

“My debrief was over ten minutes ago. Are you going to let me leave or am I going to have to check myself out?”

The agent stands up, steps away, clearing the path to the door.

“Thank you,” Tony says, levering himself to his feet. Now he just needs to get to the bridge without being stopped. 

He gets a few weird looks—green infirmary scrubs, skintight gold and black combat boots aren’t exactly a standard uniform—but he ignores them. It’s not as he needs to identify himself. 

He has to remind himself to punch in door codes manually. He has to remember to use only his own code, even though he can get any level of access he wants out of the systems. 

He wants to stretch his mind. Reach out with Extremis and just _play_ a little. Tweak some systems. Embed a few pranks. 

Not here. At the Tower. He can do whatever he wants when they get back to the Tower.

Luckily, his own code can still get him to the bridge. It’s not the most efficient route, but he can get there.

Steve’s got his back to the doors, his arms crossed as he looms over Hill (and he’s definitely looming, much as he might like to deny it). 

“Did I miss anything interesting?” Tony asks, locking his hands behind him. Not that he needs hands to hack into the Helicarrier’s navigational interface, or the PA system, or anything else, but it’s a reminder. To himself. That he shouldn’t. (At least, not right now, and not in full view of the Director of SHIELD.)

"Tony." Steve turns toward him. "We'll finish this later, Director," he throws over his shoulder.

"This isn't something you can just pick up and put down as you like, Captain, people's lives are on the line—"

"Yes," Steve turns back to her, "and as most of those people are more mine than yours right now, I'm telling you we'll talk about it later. If you want to start a fight about human rights instead of having a conversation, we can do that now."

Hill scowls but doesn't say anything, and Steve turns back to Tony. Tony raises his eyebrows in question, but Steve just shakes his head and gestures him toward the bulkhead doors. 

"You look better," Steve observes once they've got a few doors and a good length of hallways between them and Maria Hill. "How're you feeling?"

"Fine," Tony says, stretching his legs to keep up with Steve's ground-eating pace. "Debrief was a joke, but that's nothing new."

Steve flicks a look at him. "The agents are just doing their jobs, Tony. You don't have to be rude to them."

"I wasn't rude, I was concise. It's not my fault they feel the need to ask the same questions over and over."

Steve shakes his head.

"Let's just get you home."

"Sounds good. I could use a shower. Some new clothes." Tony gestures at his makeshift outfit. Certainly not the most humiliating thing he's ever worn, but not exactly flattering either. Steve just smiles at him a little, like he's not really paying attention.

“I want you to talk to Emma,” he says, and Tony’s pretty sure the sinking feeling in his gut doesn’t have anything to do with the broth the infirmary forced on him. 

“I managed to convince Maria you didn’t need to meet with a therapist,” Steve’s saying, “but you should still talk to someone.”

Tony stops in the middle of the hall and crosses his arms. “What’s to talk about?” 

Steve sighs. “It’s standard procedure, Tony. You know that.”

It is, and he does know it. He signed off on it when they added it to the Avengers bylaws. That doesn’t mean he wants another telepath anywhere near his memories.

“Give me a few days of proper sleep and some time to work on the suits and I’ll be just dandy,” he says.

Steve just puts a hand to the small of his back, pushing a little until he starts moving, then guiding him through a door marked 'Authorized personnel only' which turns out to be stairs heading up.

" And maybe that’s true," Steve says as they climb the stairs. "But I'd like to make sure you're okay before you’re back on active duty."

Tony takes the steps a bit faster, but of course Steve keeps up easily. "I'm fine, Steve," he says. "SHIELD medical gave me a clean bill of health and everything, you don't have to go all mother hen over me just because I was gone for a day or two."

"It was four days,” Steve says, “and just because you're not injured doesn't mean you're fine."

Tony reaches the last stairway landing and steps to the side so Steve can punch in the door code.

"You really don't have to worry about me," he insists. He can take care of himself. Can, in fact, do it better than ever with Extremis. Even with telepaths involved.

Steve just gives him an exasperated look.

"Tony, I always worry about you,” he says.

Great. Not that Tony had been expecting being kidnapped from his _own factory_ was going to _boost_ Steve’s confidence in him, but he’d gotten out on his own, hadn’t he?

It’s just another reminder that things weren’t exactly great between them even before a power-mad mutant tried to warp Tony’s brain.

Steve opens the door and Tony ducks under his arm, heading for the quinjet.

“Tony!” Steve calls after him, but Tony keeps walking. He shoves his hands in his pockets and does his best to keep his expression neutral. Spider-Woman, Power Man, Ms. Marvel and Wolverine are waiting for them. 

Carol looks concerned, but he just shakes his head at her. It’s not as though she can fix whatever it is that keeps going wrong when he tries to talk to Steve.

He moves to the cockpit, running through the pre-flight checklist before he even gets to the pilot’s seat.

“Mind if I take over?” He asks Spider-Woman, one hand on the back of the chair.

“Not at all,” she says, sliding out of the way. “I guess you probably don’t even really need the controls anymore, do you?”

She’s still got her mask on, so he can’t see her eyes, but she seems a bit... hesitant? He resists the urge to scan her with the quinjet’s interior systems.

“Not really, but the view’s better up here,” he says, winking, trying to make it more of a joke than whatever she’s thinking about Extremis right now.

Besides, if he’s flying the jet he’ll have something to focus on besides Steve’s eyes trying to burn a hole in the back of his head. 

“Hold on,” Jess says when the jets start up. “Emma’s not on board yet.”

Tony looks up and sure enough, there she is, walking toward them. He opens the passenger compartment grudgingly.

He shouldn’t have sent her that file. 

No. He’d needed her help. She pulled Sentry out of whatever nightmare Reynolds was trapped in. He’d just kind of been hoping she wouldn’t find out about Jackknife, or the possibility of any connection to Tony, which was _stupid_ , but there it is.

He busies himself with another systems check while she boards and straps herself in. It’s something to do with his hands, and it keeps his mind off the throbbing pain still pounding against the back of his skull.

“We good?” he asks once her harness locks in place. “Anyone else we’re ferrying around I should know about?”

“We should be good to go,” Jess says. 

“Great,” Tony mutters, starting take-off procedures. 

He just needs to get home. He’ll take a shower, shave, put on some of his own clothes and maybe spend a few hours in the lab. There’s lots of armor repair he can work on. And maybe if he’s down there long enough Steve will—no. They’d only argue again. Better not to think about it. Home, shower, shave, clothes, lab. He’ll be fine.

***

His room looks different, but he can’t quite put his finger on why until he accidentally kicks one of the boots under the bedframe. 

His bed’s been made up with hospital corners, the comforter perfectly smooth. There’s a copy of Asimov’s collected works on the bedside table that he doesn’t remember reading. He opens the closet. The space he’d cleared for Steve’s things isn’t _full_ , but there are a few pairs of sweat pants and jeans there. Some T-shirts, a few sports button-ups. The blue denim jacket with the America flag patch on one shoulder that Tony always teases Steve about. When he finishes stripping off the SHIELD scrubs and enters the bathroom he can smell Steve’s shampoo in the air.

Steve’s moved back in. That’s … good, isn’t it? He should be glad. Relieved.

Mostly he feels tired to the core. Spent. But he can’t sleep. Not yet.

The shower is blissful: hot, with just the right level of water pressure to rinse away the aches of the last few days. He scrubs himself, rinses, scrubs himself again. Stands under the spray and closes his eyes and just _basks_ in the warmth. In being _clean_.

When he steps out the bathroom is full of steam, warm enough he barely feels the need for a towel. The mirror is clear though, so Steve or Jarvis has probably treated it recently, despite his absence.

His beard really _is_ a mess. He sighs and pulls out his kit. At least he can make himself _look_ presentable, even if the shadows in his mind will take longer to dissipate. Image is usually more than half the battle anyway.

Emma’s waiting for him by the time he’s done. He can see her through the security cameras, hovering outside the door to his suite. 

He takes his time getting dressed. If he can’t wear the armor, he’ll wear the next best thing. Fitted black slacks with a proper belt around his hips instead of loose elastic. And old white undershirt, soft with washings. Warm wool socks. A pale blue button-up, crisply ironed, the collar freshly starched. A gold-face watch, the leather band warming to his skin. He shrugs into a tailored black suit jacket, laces up a pair of black Oxfords and almost feels like himself again. Tony Stark, successful industrialist. Ready to take on the world.

He opens the door and steps back to let Emma in. Whatever she has to say, he doesn’t want to talk in the hallway. 

“You know why I’m here,” she says. She keeps her hands at her sides, her posture studiously non-threatening.

“I don’t, actually,” Tony tells her. He fiddles with his watch band. It’s catching on his arm hair.

She snorts.

“Just because Steve refused to allow any of the SHIELD psychics near you doesn’t mean you don’t need to talk to someone. You’ve been projecting rather loudly ever since you woke up after the fight. And you seem to trust me a little, at least, or you wouldn’t have asked for my help.”

He’s been projecting? _Shit_. He’d thought he’d been keeping a pretty good lid on things.

“I wasn’t sure who else to contact,” he admits. “Reynolds …”

“He needed help,” Emma says with a shrug. “I was happy to lend a hand. Just like I am now.”

Tony puts on his best press-room smile.

“I’m fine,” he says. She just shakes her head.

“I’ve seen what he did to Sentry. I doubt he was any kinder to you, especially given the fear I’m getting off you now. Will you at least let me see if he left any traps for you?”

“Traps?”

“Buried memories, usually false ones. Sentry had a lot of them. It’s one of the reasons I’m going to continue working with him. He’s not fully himself even now. It can be difficult to identify these things without help.”

Tony swallows, his throat clicking in his ears. He’s having a hard enough time remembering what was real and what was a dream as it is. 

“I don’t want anyone else in my head,” he says. He feels raw all over. Exposed.

She rubs her hands together, like she’s cold maybe. He can’t read anything but compassion in her expression.

“I promise, I won’t invade your privacy any more than necessary. I just want to make sure there’s no lasting damage. I know you’ve had trouble with mind control in the past.”

It’s a low blow, and he can tell she knows it. But she’s right, too. He can’t afford the risk.

“Ok,” he nods. Takes a deep breath. “Do it.”

She gesture toward the bed and he sits down. His hands are shaking. He clenches his fingers in the comforter and tries to stay still as she raises her hands to his temples and closes her eyes.

He doesn’t really feel anything. There’s no clouding mist, no shift in consciousness, nothing. After a moment she opens her eyes. She looks sad, but the tight worry lines around her mouth have smoothed out.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

He shrugs, studying the carpet.

“What’s the verdict?” he asks. “Am I likely to turn supervillain anytime soon?”

She shifts her weight, tall heels pressing deeper into the rug, but he doesn’t look up.

“I couldn’t find anything that looked like it had been specifically planted,” she says. “I think you’re safe on that front.”

“Good.”

She hesitates.

“What else?” he asks, resigned.

“I could … dim the nightmares, age them. Move them further back in your memories. If you want.”

It’s tempting. There’s no point in denying that he’s scared of the darkness behind his eyelids. But they’re just dreams, and neither Jackknife nor the Void are around to ramp up their intensity any more. He’d rather keep other people’s fingers out of his brain.

He shakes his head and she sighs.

“Call me if you change your mind,” she says, and leaves. 

He watches her through the cameras, and sure enough, Steve’s waiting for her in the kitchen. 

“How is he?” Steve asks. The mics aren’t good enough for Tony to get a read on his inflection. He makes a note to replace them.

Emma shakes her head.

“You should go see him yourself.”

“I will,” Steve says. “I just wondered how _you_ thought he was doing. He …” he rubs the back of his neck, “He seemed upset about something I said earlier. I just don’t want to make things worse.”

Emma presses her lips into a thin line.

“Some things are too personal to share,” she says. “I can’t tell you what’s going on in his head, if that’s what you’re asking. That’s his business. If he wants you to know, he’ll tell you.”

Steve puts his hands on his hips, his head cocked to the side. Tony can’t see his face through the cameras.

“What _can_ you tell me,” he asks.

She shrugs.

“You’ve probably guessed most of it. They messed with his head, the Void and Jackknife both. I’m still not sure about how that interconnection worked. It’s not pretty. But Tony’s stubborn too, and whatever the thing in his brain is, it protected him a little. There’s no permanent damage.”

“Thank God,” Steve says, his shoulders bowed. He gestures toward the doorway. “Thank you, I’m sorry for keeping you, I know you probably want to get back—“

They move out of mic range and Tony stops watching. 

The _thing in his brain_ can only be Extremis. He makes a note to try some experiments, see if there are more things Extremis does that he’s not fully aware of. 

He adjusts his cuffs and opens the door. He’s got work to do. If Steve wants to find him, he knows where to look. 

***

He’s walking in the city. Stumbling, really. There’s slush on the ground. He can’t control where his feet land, can’t quite feel the tips of his fingers. His breath forms little puffs in the cold night air, and he can taste bile in the back of his mouth.

He’s not wearing a coat, just a basic three-piece suit. His oxfords may be leather and his thin dress socks may be wool, but that doesn’t mean they’re _warm_ , not in these conditions. There has to be somewhere he can get indoors. His brain might not be going full tilt, but he knows he can’t stay out like this. He’ll die. Alone in the cold. And no one will even care.

He trips and falls to his knees, hands buried in slush. He’s shivering, full-bodied, and that’s supposed to be good, right? He needs to worry if he _stops_ shivering.

It doesn’t _feel_ good. It feels _miserable_.

He needs to get up, get moving, find a place to stay. 

The cold is an ache in his bones; he can’t get up, there’s inky darkness rising up from his hands, he’s going to die here—

Her jerks awake to a hand on his shoulder and strikes back with his elbow, shifting on his stool to regain his balance and—

And Steve catches his out-flung forearm with one hand, the other going over Tony’s ribs, steadying him. _Warm._ His eyes are wide, his mouth open like maybe he was talking before Tony tried to elbow-strike his sternum. 

Tony turns and scoots back until his spine presses hard against the edge of his worktable. Steve’s hands fall away.

“You were talking in your sleep,” Steve says. He’s got his right hand on his left arm, rubbing vaguely at his elbow. Closed off. Unsure. 

Tony rubs his eyes and wishes, just for a moment, that Steve didn’t have unlimited access to the lab. He doesn’t want to know what he was saying. He doesn’t want to know what new wedge he’s driven between them. He turns back to the table.

“Was there something you needed?” he asks. There’s a liquid that looks suspiciously like drool on his keyboard. Wonderful. 

“Just wanted to see how you were doing,” Steve says. He shrugs, his T-shirt stretching over his shoulders. 

Right.

“I’m fine,” Tony tells him. “Not the first time I’ve fallen asleep working, you know that.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, but he doesn’t sound convinced.

Tony scrolls through the Extremis code. He’s not even sure what he was trying to do before he crashed, now. The editing window is full of gibberish. Something about emotional responses.

Steve leans his hip against the edge of the table and taps the little Ferris wheel desk toy behind the keyboard. Tony watches it spin and tries to figure out what Steve wants here. Traditionally, he’d expect team worries, or current events. Maybe something about the armors or whatever book Steve’s reading. Lately though (or at least, before Steve stormed off to Brooklyn) they’ve been talking more and more often about the future: sustaining the team, spreading out their strength, something beyond small gatherings of a few choice heroes. And quieter, more personal things, like places Steve’s never been and ideas Tony can’t tackle alone.

Given the circumstances, however, Steve probably wants to talk about the Council of Evil, and Jackknife and Sentry, and Tony _doesn’t want to have that conversation._

He hunches his shoulders and refocuses on the monitors. Any minute now Steve’s going to broach the topic, and Tony doesn’t know what he’ll say.

He waits. Steve spins the wheel again. For a moment Tony thinks he’s going to run his hand through Tony’s hair, erase the last few weeks like they never happened, but no. Steve’s hand falls back to his side. He squashes down the pang of disappointment.

“I was thinking about making some coffee,” Steve says. “Do you want some?”

He’s watching the wheel, not Tony, his expression pensive.

It’s an obvious ruse. Tony always accepts coffee. If Steve’s plan really involved hot drinks he would have already made them. Tony’s pretty sure Steve hasn’t _asked_ him if he wants coffee for _years_. If anything, the man tries to get him to drink _less_ of it.

He sighs. Steve can be a persistent bastard when he wants to be, and between his lab access and the fact that they’re sharing a bedroom it’s not like Tony can avoid the conversation for long. Another day, maybe. Two if he spends most of his time at SI. It’s not worth the effort.

“Yeah, ok,” he says. He gestures Steve toward the lab kitchenette. “Knock yourself out."

Steve squeezes his shoulder as he passes, and Tony just wants him to _stay there_ warm at his back. Forever, if possible. 

He doesn’t, of course.

Tony tries to go back to the code but he can’t concentrate anymore. Maybe Steve wants to talk about what happened on the island, but Tony wants to talk about what happened before that: Extremis, Steve moving out, the mess of a conversation they had the night before he flew out to Fremont. 

He feels lost, all the strands of his life slipping through his fingers. He needs to _do_ something.

“I uh, saw you moved back into my room,” he says. Steve pauses, holding a bag of coffee beans halfway between the cabinet and the counter. His T-shirt’s riding up above the waistband of his jeans.

Maybe that wasn’t the best way to bring it up.

“That all right?” Steve asks. He keeps his back to Tony, setting down the beans and pulling out the grinder.

“I—yes.” _Of course._ “Yeah, I just …” Tony coughs and scraps the rest of that sentence. It’s not going anywhere useful. “You seemed pretty angry. When you left. The Tower, I mean.”

“I was,” Steve agrees, measuring out beans.

“Right,” Tony says. “So I guess I was wondering—”

The grinder whirrs to life and Tony gives up on talking until it’s finished. He could use a little time to find the right words, anyway.

Steve switches it off and knocks the grounds into the bottom of the French press.

“I was wondering what changed while I was, um. Gone,” Tony finishes. 

Steve does turn to face him then, glass container in one hand and metal-mesh press in the other, eyebrows raised incredulously. Tony rushes to correct himself.

“I thought maybe—”

“You thought I was _leaving_ ,” Steve says, voice flat.

Tony winces. “Not… no. Not really. I didn’t—” he gives up. He hadn’t been sure _what_ was happening, really, and his memory of that fight isn’t very clear anymore. The whole stretch of time between when he took down Mallen and woke up in Carol’s lap feels like a long nightmare.

“Tony.” Steve sighs and sets the pieces of the press on the counter. He strides around the breakfast bar and stops in front of Tony’s stool. Reaches out and grips Tony’s arms above his elbows. 

Tony wishes he’d taken off his jacket. He’s probably wrinkled everything terribly by now. It doesn’t feel right anymore; it was supposed to help him feel _safe_ but now the layers of cotton and silk and wool are just more barriers between him and Steve. 

“I wasn’t _leaving you_ , Tony,” Steve says, his expression intent. His fingers flex around Tony’s arms. “I just needed to work through some things. I was—” he bites his lip, looking away.

“You were angry,” Tony says. He feels like he’s watching someone else have this conversation. There are two scenes in his mind, side-by-side. This one, with Steve in front of him, reassuring, and another, with Steve motionless on the ground in a half-built construction site, blood seeping through the white star on his chest. He keeps having to remind himself that the second one never happened.

“You were angry about Extremis,” Tony continues, his voice far away in his own ears, “and Mallen.”

“I felt like you didn’t trust me,” Steve says, and Tony sucks in a breath, jerking backward.

He’d thought that was a dream. He’d been _sure._

Steve grips his arms tighter. “Tony, I just meant—you scared me.”

Tony laughs. It just bubbles up out of him, beyond his control.

Steve lets go of him, his jaw tight.

“You _almost died!_ Was I supposed to just be ok with that?”

Tony shakes his head and slides off the stool. He doesn’t know what’s real anymore. He can’t remember which conversations really happened and which ones he only dreamed, and his vision is blurring, his breath hiccupping in his throat. 

Steve’s scowl wavers, and he draws Tony into his chest, his arms warm and solid over Tony’s back. 

“Hey,” he says against Tony’s ear. Tony can feel his fingers at the nape of his neck, stroking through the short hair there.

“It’s ok. You’re safe,” Steve whispers, stroking down his back. Tony grabs fistfuls of Steve’s shirt and presses his face against Steve’s shoulder, and Steve’s arms wrap around him, heavy and familiar and _real_.

“I’m sorry,” Tony whispers. He should be better than this. He should have more control. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats against Steve’s chest. His face is wet and his breath is coming in ugly sobs. He can’t make himself let go of Steve’s shirt. 

“Shhh,” Steve says, tugging him even closer, until Tony’s full-on leaning into him.

He lets go. Gives in and just cries into Steve’s shoulder.

They end up on the floor, Steve’s back against the wall and Tony pressed against his chest.

“Why are you still here?” Tony asks, his voice rasping.

Steve’s arms tighten around him. For a long moment he doesn’t answer.

"Before anything else, you’re my friend, Tony,” he murmurs, his breath ghosting through Tony’s hair. “You'll always be important to me. Even when I'm angry with you, you don't just stop being part of my life."

Tony sucks down air, his eyes shut tight. He shouldn’t need this so much.

“And you moved back in,” he says. It’s almost a question, even with the evidence in his bedroom.

“I missed you,” Steve says simply.

“I—” Tony swallows the rest of the words. Saying he _missed_ Steve wouldn’t come close to what he wants.

"So you still want to do this thing?" he asks. He’s trying to keep his voice level but he’s not very successful. 

"Do you?" Steve asks.  
.  
Tony laughs, hardly any noise in it. He twists around on his knees to look Steve in the face.

"You have to ask?" 

Steve shrugs, not quite meeting his eyes.

"I started this. You asked for some space. We never really ... Resolved that."

He looks so earnest. 

"As you might have noticed, I’m not exactly at my best right now,” Tony says, gesturing vaguely. There are a lot of days that fall into that category, even if they aren’t usually quite this bad. “And it's never going to be easy." 

Steve raises an eyebrow at him, mouth twisting up into a rueful smirk.

"Is anything we do easy?" he asks, and Tony shakes his head.

"I'm still not ready to tell the press." He doesn’t even want to think about the press. The release he’s going to have to sign off on. The next team conference. _Fuck_.

"I don't care about the press, Tony." Steve slips his hands under Tony’s jacket, his palms skidding over Tony’s ribs. 

"We had a good thing” he says, stroking long lines down Tony’s sides to just above his hip bones. “I'd like more of it. If you want."

"Steve, I -" He shakes his head again, and Steve's hands fall away.

"No, no." Tony grabs at Steve's wrists in the scant space between them. "I'm not saying I don't want that. I do. I just—" He hesitates, tries the words out in his head first. He needs to say this.

"I'm never going to be the person you deserve to be with. Some days I'm not even a good friend."

"Tony—" 

He snorts, cutting off whatever Steve was going to say.

"You can't tell me that's not true, Steve." They both know it. He’s failed too many times for anything else.

"You've always been a good friend when I needed one," Steve insists.

That _might_ be true. Depending on how Steve defines "need." But it's not nearly enough. Tony bites his lip.

"You needed one when we disbanded the Avengers, but I was too wrapped up in my own problems to do anything about it,” he says. He looks down at their hands and strokes his thumbs over Steve’s wrists. “Wanda needed one, somewhere along the line, or none of that would've happened. And that's just friends. My track record with romance isn't exactly inspiring."

"And mine is?" Steve asks. He turns his hands over, shifts his grip. His palms radiate heat against Tony’s cold fingers. 

"We'll figure it out, Tony. Just give yourself a chance."

It’s _Steve_ giving _him_ a chance that he’s worried about but he nods anyway. They _do_ do their best work together.

"So..." Steve squeezes his fingers. "We're good?"

"We're good." Tony says. He glances up and smiles, half shy and half eager.

"Good," Steve says.

He slides his hand up to Tony's shoulder, then to the back of his neck, and Tony can feel himself leaning into the touch, a swell of breathless hope ballooning under his diaphragm, constricting his lungs. He reaches out, tentative, touches Steve's chest and runs his fingertips down his shirt to his hip, just above his belt. When he looks back up Steve's smiling at him like Tony just saved the day and maybe a whole bus full of school kids besides, and Tony feels Steve's nails scratching over his hairline and something in him just melts a bit, warm and soft and unexpected, and he leans forward to kiss that smile and Steve's lips are just as he remembers them. 

***

Things— _almost_ —go back to normal. Or normal for them, anyway. Steve’s still right there beside him in the next team meeting, and by the end of it Tony feels like they’re comfortable again, even if he is grounded at the moment. They’re thinking along the same lines, positing complimentary goals.

They eat together, train in the gym together, stay up watching movies or working on projects together. Sleep next to each other.

He has to leave the bedside lamp on at night. He can’t make himself close his eyes without it, even with the curtains open and the city glowing through the sliding glass balcony door.

Steve doesn’t comment on it, but Tony knows it messes with his sleep cycles. Steve’s always gotten up with the sun.

Tony likewise doesn’t say anything about the way Steve tosses and turns all night, his eyes rarely still behind his eyelids. He doesn’t want to admit that he spends most of each night just _watching_ Steve. The lamplight makes him look more real. Solid. Like Tony could touch him and he wouldn’t dissipate into mist and memories.

Tony catches his sleep in catnaps during full daylight while Steve’s out for a run, or sometimes when he’s at the office or in the lab alone. It won’t work for long, but it keeps the nightmares at bay, at least most of the time.

After a week he decides enough is enough. He’s tired, and Steve has shadows under his eyes. He’s not going to let his nightmares control him. 

That night he shuts off the lamp and curls on his side and pointedly ignores Steve’s worried silence. (Steve’s practically been walking on eggshells any time he’s not in the gym ever since that first night after Tony got back. He _always_ looks worried now. It needs to end.) He shuts his eyes tight and tells himself the darkness doesn’t matter.

Sleep is a long time coming. He presses closer to Steve and listens to his heartbeat, tries to immerse himself in Steve’s warmth and breath and _life_.

He wakes up in a cold sweat, screaming, Steve leaning over him, pinning his limbs to the mattress. 

It’s too much. 

“Off, off, get off me,” he says, squirming. Steve lets go immediately and swings himself to the side. 

Tony sits up and braces himself against the headboard, knees drawn up to his chest. He takes deep breathes, concentrates on expanding his diaphragm. He stares at the foot of the bed and tries to get the paths in his head to make sense again. 

Steve’s kneeling on top of the sheets, backlit by the ghostly glow of neon and fluorescents from the balcony. His hair and white sleep-shirt are washed with blues and greens. Tony can’t see well enough to read his expression, but he can guess. Steve’s nightmares are fewer and further between these days, but the sense of helplessness Tony feels every time Steve wakes up with a jerk and a muffled shout is still familiar. 

“Sorry,” he says. It was probably bound to happen, but he still wishes things could be different. 

Steve shakes his head. 

“Are you going to talk to me about this?” he asks. 

Tony blows out a deep breath and presses his forehead against his knees. His pajamas are much softer than the Raft’s inmate uniform. 

“It’s not as if there’s anything you can do,” he whispers. 

Steve makes a noise that sounds like something between a protest and a moan and crawls up next to him, settling against the headboard so their shoulders press together. 

“That’s not the point,” he insists. “I’m here, I care, you don’t have to do this alone. Even if there’s not much to do that doesn’t mean I don’t _want_ to help.” 

He lays his hand out palm up on the sheets, right next to Tony’s. Not quite touching, but certainly an invitation. 

“It’s …” Tony takes a deep breath and lets it go. Takes another. Slides his fingertips over Steve’s palm and locks their fingers together. Grips Steve’s hand tight. 

“It’s just fear,” he says. “Every deep-buried fear I’ve got made real somehow. I can’t always tell what was a dream and what’s a real memory.” He laughs. “That sounds so simple.” 

Steve squeezes his hand. 

“You’re fine, Tony. No one expects you to be fearless. _I_ certainly don’t.” 

Well, no, maybe not. Doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be able to get over this mess. 

“I’m better than this,” he says. “Or I thought I was. SHIELD says Reynolds is recovering well; he was in that hole longer than I was.” 

“ _Tony_.” Steve twists up to look him in the face, the side of his thigh warm and solid against Tony’s drawn up legs. “That’s not how this works.” This close, Tony can just make out his frown. 

“You remember when I told you about Bucky?” he asks. 

Tony nods. Of course he remembers that. The photos, the experiments and mission reports. The way Steve had hunched over it all, like he didn’t want to touch it but couldn’t let it out of his sight, either. 

“You told me I shouldn’t blame myself. That I should focus on what I can do _now_ , to change the future.” Steve quirks a half-smile at him. “It was good advice. You could listen to it yourself.” 

“It’s not the same—” 

“It _is_ ,” Steve interrupts. He reaches out; Tony can feel his fingertips brush his temple and forehead, pushing back his bangs. 

“You can’t change what happened. Someone—” 

Steve cuts himself off. Tony watches his Adam’s apple bob in the half-light. 

“Someone reached into your head and messed things around. That wasn’t your fault.” 

“I’m not saying it was my _fault_ —” Tony tries, but Steve just shakes his head. 

“You think I don’t know what you look like when you’re blaming yourself, Tony?” he says. 

Tony presses his lips together, his jaw clenched tight. Steve’s fingers are gentle against his scalp, combing through his hair soothingly. 

He shouldn’t need to be taken care of like this. He shouldn’t _want_ it. But he does. He wants to curl up in Steve’s arms and listen to his heartbeat and not think about anything else. 

“We’ve all got skeletons in our pasts,” Steve is saying, rubbing smooth fingertips over Tony’s temple, his other hand tangled tight in Tony’s. “Blaming yourself doesn’t change anything. And I trust you. I know you’ll figure this out.” 

Trust, huh? 

Tony tilts his head back. Just slightly out of Steve’s reach. 

“Why are you keeping me on reserve?” he asks. 

Steve’s outstretched hand falls back to his side. 

“You know why,” he says. 

“Do I?” Tony asks. “Because from here it looks like you _don’t_ trust me.” He shakes his left hand out of Steve’s grasp and tries to ignore the look of injured protest that flits over Steve’s face. 

“Not that I should be surprised,” he continues, shoving his hands under his armpits. “You’ve made it obvious you don’t trust Extremis more than once.” 

Steve goes still, his hands clenched on his knees. But his eyes don’t waver, still fixed on Tony’s face. 

Tony wants to hide under the blankets and sheets. Curl up with his back to Steve and disappear. He shouldn’t have said that, no matter how true it is— 

“You know, Carol told me you’d do this,” Steve says. “She said you try to drive people away when you’re hurting. Make them angry so they leave you alone.” A rueful smile. “It’s certainly worked on me before.” 

Tony shrinks in on himself. He doesn’t want Steve to leave him alone. He just doesn’t want to talk about … certain things. 

“I’m not going to leave you alone, Tony,” Steve continues. “I’m going to be right here next to you. As a lover if you’ll have me and as a friend and teammate if you won’t.” 

He sits back and Tony has to stop himself from leaning forward. 

“And since you seem to need reminding, you’re on reserve because the armors may be compromised, not because I doubt your abilities in the field. Finish fixing the suit and you’ll be back on the roster. Simple.” 

Tony doesn’t really have anything to say to that. He’s been avoiding working on the armor, telling himself that the SI work is more pressing, that finishing a solution to his nightmares through Extremis is more important. He doesn’t want to find pieces of the Void in the suit. He has enough trouble sleeping as it is. 

Silence stretches between them, filling all the spaces where they don’t touch. 

His hands feel cold, even trapped against his chest. His toes feel _icy_. He might throw up. 

“Sometimes you’re dead,” he blurts. 

Steve blinks at him and leans forward a little. 

“Sometimes I’m drunk,” Tony says. The words are just spilling out of his mouth now. A stream he can’t stem. 

“Sometimes I hurt people, or watch them get hurt because of some decision I made, something I can’t fix. Sometimes it’s just.. darkness. Complete, utterly silent darkness. Or I’m alone and cold and can’t find my way home. Or—” 

Steve’s arms slip around his shoulders and he lets himself be pulled off balance until he’s leaning against Steve’s chest. 

“—I’m back in the old chest plate and I can’t breathe—” 

He talks until his voice gives out and Steve just holds him tight and doesn’t say a word. Tony lets himself sink into Steve’s warmth and listens to his heartbeat. It’s more of a relief than he’d thought it would be. A weight off his shoulders, even as drained as he feels now. He’s not alone, and Steve’s not running away. 

*** 

An alert comes through the day after he declares the armor ready for action again. He’s been over every piece, every connection, every line of code. It’s clean. 

The whole team looks happier when Steve tells him to suit up and meet them in Jersey City. Jess smiles and Logan says _finally_ ; Peter gives him a thumbs up and Luke slaps him on the back. Steve’s smile is just shy of _radiant_. 

(Tony waits until the others have left to kiss that smile. He doesn’t need the running commentary their team is likely to keep up, he just needs Steve.) 

Being in the armor again is like stepping out into the sun after being sick in a dark room. The sky is welcoming and limitless, a deep, enveloping blue with just a scattering of cirrus clouds. 

He flies fast enough to outstrip the quinjet by a few minutes and uses the time to map out the most likely fight perimeter. He runs a few scans to check for any unexpected power levels, but the results match up with the local police report. 

The Controller is attacking a shopping mall, probably trying to gather more slaves for whatever new plan he’s come up with. There are panicking civilians mixed in with the single-minded minions, their control discs blinking on their necks. 

He pulls up an infrared map of the building and watches the shift in clusters of warm bodies. 

They’re being herded to the basement. 

“Looks like we’ll be inside for this one,” he tells the others over the communicator. “We’ve got slaves with control discs and a bunch of scared civilians mixed together, so be careful who you hit.” 

“We’re sure it’s the Controller?” Jess asks. 

“Mall security recognized him from the Raft mugshots. Not that many people out there with white eyes; also, I can confirm the presence of the slave discs.” 

“Fair enough.” 

“Yeah, great,” Luke says. “And that little disc is the only way to know who’s being controlled?” 

“Haven’t gotten closer look yet,” Tony tells him. “Who knows, maybe there’s shuffling feet and zombie moans. I doubt it though.” 

“Let’s try to keep the property damage to a minimum if we can,” Steve says as the quinjet swoops down to land. 

“ _Inside a mall?_ ” Logan snorts. “Yeah, that’s likely.” 

“Just do your best,” Steve says. “Iron Man, your first priority is the Controller. If he goes down the slave discs are less effective. Spider-Man, Spider-Woman, you’re with me on crowd control. Round people up, block exits, keep them calm if you can. Power Man and Wolverine, work on identifying the ones with slave discs. We don’t want to hurt them too badly, but get them out of the fight.” 

Tony doesn’t wait for the rest of the team to clamber out of the jet. He just dives through the nearest set of doors and narrows down his readings, filtering for the most likely signals—there. The slave discs are definitely receiving from the basement. 

“Haven’t you fought this guy before, Iron Man?” Peter asks. 

“Sure, loads of times,” Tony says. Three burly men stand between him and the stairwell. He stuns them with a low-level repulsor blast and flies through. “He just doesn’t know when to quit.” 

“What usually happens?” Steve asks. 

“He overreaches himself. Tries to take on more than he can really handle. Classic control freak. He won’t be satisfied with just _winning_ , he has to win in the best way possible.” 

“Well, at least that ups the odds on getting all his victims out of here,” Steve notes. 

“All or nothing?” Peter quips. 

“Let’s make it nothing,” Steve confirms. 

Tony drops down the center of the stairwell. Mall blueprints indicate 3 sub-basements. Floors two and one speed by. The bottom basement is so deep in the bedrock any signal would get distorted by the time it reached the third floor. The Controller wouldn’t take that kind of risk. It has to be basement 1 or 2. 

Sub-basement 1 goes by without a shift in the signal. Must be sub-basement 2. 

The doors are open. He gets one glimpse of the Controller’s broad blue back and two others—a stick of a man with a mop of long white hair and someone tall in a full black bodysuit. 

Then the lights go out, even the glow from the repulsors look dim. His heat vision still works though: three hostiles, one of them charging toward him. 

He barely manages to dodge the black coils of metal that streak out of the darkness. 

Vibranium, at least 20 feet long. 

He sends more power to the boot jets and shoots back, out to the stairwell. 

“I may have a problem,” he says over the comm. 

“Don’t keep us waiting,” Logan growls. “Some of us got stuck with the boring jobs.” 

“Well, I’m about to make your day more interesting,” Tony tells him. “I’ve got the Constrictor on my tail and the Controller’s got a guard. Looked like Blackout before the whole room went dark.” 

Logan sighs into the comm. “Blackout’s annoying, but I can handle him. You got a location?” 

“Second basement, southwest corner.” 

“Got it. Any chance of borrowing Spider-Man, Cap?” 

“Do it,” Steve says. “Iron Man, I’m sending you some help for the Constrictor too. Pretty sure you’ll recognize him.” 

“That would be helpful,” Tony admits. Constrictor’s gaining on him. He knocks back the reaching coils with repulsor shots and concussive blasts, but it’s a stalling tactic. SHIELD files indicate the flexing vibranium is strong enough to do serious damage to the suit, and that’s before they’re electrified. 

He spins, darts to the right and out into the first basement, dodging through shelves of inventory. He can hear things crashing behind him—he’s probably messing up Steve’s no-property-damage counter. 

He pushes through the emergency doors to the opposite stairwell and heads up again. 

There’s a bright light coming down the stairwell, too fast to just be falling. A blue cape flutters past his face. A glowing golden S. 

Sentry. 

“Ok, yeah,” Tony says. “Pretty sure Constrictor’s not going to be a problem anymore. Where’d he come from?” 

“SHIELD sent him,” Steve grunts. “Said something about a field test. Emma called in her approval.” 

“If you’re done, we could use some more help downstairs,” Peter says. ”I think they realized we were coming. They got some, uh, people in our way.” 

“I’ll be right there.” 

Sentry’s got Constrictor in a headlock when he passes them. The vibranium coils don’t seem to be designed for getting flying superheroes with god-level powers off of the user’s back. 

The darkness has dissipated when he reaches the second basement again. Maybe Blackout can’t spare the concentration to absorb the light—he looks pretty busy with Wolverine’s claws. 

There are a couple struggling slaves wrapped in webbing along the far wall, and Spider-Man’s doing a pretty clean job of hemming the Controller in with webs and strategically-moved storage pallets. 

A few short concussive blasts and the Controller’s clutching his head. Spider-Man webs his hands in place; another stunning blast and he’s down. 

“So, do we have to haul these guys up the stairs, or can we let SHIELD do it?” Spider-Man asks. 

“We’ll get them outside,” Tony tells him, and Spider-Man’s shoulder’s sag. 

“You’re going to make me carry someone aren’t you,” he asks. Tony claps him on the back. 

“‘Course I am,” he nods at the Controller. “You get him. Wolverine gets Blackout. I’ll take the slaves.” 

“Wonderful,” Spider-Man sighs. 

*** 

By the time they get everyone to the main level, Steve, Jess and Luke have moved most of the civilians into temporary SHIELD custody. Tony drops off his no-longer-struggling captives with the Agents who seem to be corralling the people with slave discs and looks around. 

Steve grins at him over the milling agents, his eyes crinkling behind the cowl. He’s got dust smeared over the A on his forehead and is really far more attractive than he has any right to be. Tony just wants to take him back to the Tower and peel him out of all that leather and lick the sweat off his skin until Steve forgets that the rest of the team is only a floor or two away at most. 

They haven’t done more than kiss and talk and cuddle since before he went to Coney Island. Before Extremis and Jackknife and Sentry. Which isn’t _bad_ , per se, but still. It’s high time he changed that, really. 

He steps through the crowd and holds out his hand. 

“Offer you a lift?” 

Steve takes his arm and steps up onto one of the boots and Tony takes off, flying up above the reach of the city skyscrapers in a looping spiral. Steve’s still coordinating clean-up over the communicator, giving orders about containment and SHIELD reports and a team meeting later. Spider-Man offers Sentry a ride back to the Tower, which is silly because the man can fly on his own and— 

“What the hell is that?” Tony asks. 

There’s something claw-like and black perched on top of the Tower. It has a big bright ball of light at the top and doesn’t match his design at all. 

“Uh, Sentry says it’s his watchtower,” Spider-Man reports. “I guess it was there the whole time, sort of thing? But nobody could see it until he remembered himself properly. Or something.” 

“No wonder I got the land so cheap,” Tony mutters. It’s petty, but he’s a little miffed that some other superhero apparently set up shop _in the same space_ before he even started building. 

“He’s good to have in a fight,” Steve says. “Maybe it’s a sign he should join the team.” 

“Mn.” With the risk of the Void’s appearance, having Reynolds on the team might be more trouble than it’s worth. He _is_ useful though. 

“You all right? Steve asks after a moment. 

“Peachy, Cap,” Tony says, spiraling up for a moment to try and redirect his thoughts. Peeling Steve out of his uniform, that’s the plan. But not in the bedroom. He needs to ask Jarvis to give that room a makeover or something; they’ve spent too much time sitting awake in the dark while Tony shakes for it to be somewhere he wants to debauch Steve at the moment. 

“I’m kidnapping you for the rest of the afternoon,” he tells Steve as they get closer to the Tower. “Maybe longer. We’ve got a date.” 

“Do we?” Steve asks. He sounds like he’s trying not to laugh. “I guess I can do that.” 

“Good.” 

Tony enters the Tower through the hanger but keeps going, rocketing through the halls and emergency stairways. Steve mutters something like _Tony’s you’re not really—_ but Tony’s not listening. He just shifts his hold on Steve to pin him more securely to his side as they swerve around a corner. 

According to the security systems, the only person they even _could_ run into is Jarvis, and he’s on one of the lower floors. Flying is more efficient that walking and he’s tired of biding his time. Waiting for the right moment. 

He sets Steve down in the TV room and sheds the armor with a thought. 

Then he steps into Steve’s space and backs him up until his calves hit the couch and he sits down. 

Steve just looks amused. 

“You realize we’re on the common floor, right?” he asks. “You didn’t even shut the door.” 

“I don’t need a door, Steve, I have all the Tower systems _in my head_. Also,” He straddles Steve hips and tugs the cowl back, “I really don’t care right now.” 

He laps his tongue over Steve’s lower lip and presses in closer, scrapes his teeth and tongue over the skin just under Steve’s ear until he sighs and sinks back against the cushions. Tony kisses his lips again, lingering and thorough. 

When he pulls back Steve looks appropriately glassy-eyed. The Ravishment of Captain America appears to be a success so far. 

“You know, we have a bedroom,” Steve murmurs, stroking his hips. “Two, even. They’re just two floors away. They’re nice.” 

“Neither of our bedrooms has a couch,” Tony tells him. “Making out on the couch in a semi-public location is an important relationship milestone.” 

“That right?” 

“Yep. Well-known fact.” 

He leans in again, untucking the edges of Steve’s mail shirt and slipping his tongue into Steve’s mouth. Since Steve’s hands are cupping his ass he’s pretty sure there’s no argument forthcoming. 

It’s really a struggle not to just selectively retract the undersuit, but he’s pretty sure if he starts actually baring much skin Steve will haul them both upstairs without waiting for Tony to agree. 

Not that that would be _bad_ in any way. Maybe he should try to provoke that response. In a little while. First he wants to see how much of Steve’ uniform he can get off without actually moving out of his lap. 

***

Someone clears their throat, but since it's not Steve (it'd be hard for him to make that noise with his tongue in Tony's mouth), Tony just kinda ignores it. Steve, unfortunately, has other ideas, and Tony tries not to cling too obviously as he pulls away, his hands shifting around to Tony's side and collarbone, keeping him in place while Steve cranes his neck to see - ah. Luke Cage, standing in the doorway and looking distinctly unimpressed with them. 

"Just so you know, the press are outside demanding a statement whenever you're, you know, done sucking each other's faces," he says. 

"They can wait," Tony says, stroking his thumb over Steve's hipbone. The increasing flush over Steve's chest and neck is far more important than anything the press might want. Besides, according to the Tower security cameras it's not even that big a crowd yet, and most of the reporters look fairly content to wait all afternoon if they have to. The pushy ones will probably show up later. 

"We'll be up in a few minutes," Steve says, grabbing Tony's wrist. Luke gives them a look that very clearly conveys his lack of faith in this statement and Tony smirks at him. 

"I'm sure you three can start constructing a statement without us by now. We'll look it over before anyone tries to storm the building." He assures Luke. 

Luke just shakes his head and turns away, muttering something Tony doesn't bother trying to hear. 

"Tony—" Steve tries to protest; he seems to be under the impression that Tony cares about Luke’s message. He doesn’t. 

"They can handle a press statement, Steve. It's not a big deal." 

"We're the team leaders -" Steve tries to sit up, but Tony plants one hand in the middle of his chest and pushes him back down on the couch. 

"And as long as we're there for the announcement, no one will think anything of it," Tony says. 

Steve huffs, but doesn’t try to move again. "What happened to 'the team comes first'?" he asks. 

"The team does come first," Tony agrees. "The press is more like ... 50th on the list." 

Steve smiles then, teasing 

"50th? You have a list?" 

"Of course I have a list, Steve, priorities are important." He strokes one finger under the edge of Steve’s waistband to illustrate his point. 

"Do I want to know where I fall on this list?" Steve asks, arching a little. 

"Probably not," Tony admits. His priorities are probably never going to be exactly what Steve thinks they should be. "You're pretty close to the top though." 

Steve's fingertips slide over a conveniently bare section of Tony’s collar and he suppresses a full-body shiver. 

"What about the armor?" Steve asks, tracing lines of prickling heat over Tony's shoulder and neck. 

"Oh, you're definitely more important than the armor," Tony says, trying to keep his voice light and easy. The stroking stops and Steve's just ... looking at him. 

"What? I can rebuild the armor. It's a tool, not—” not like Steve. 

"Tony, I—" Steve's hands come up on either side of his face, palms over his ears and fingers wrapping around his skull, and Tony freezes, despite himself. 

"You are so -" Steve shakes his head, apparently lost for words, and then he leans up and they're kissing again, fierce this time, like Steve's trying to put whatever he was trying to say into Tony's brain via his lips and tongue and little sharp nips of his teeth. 

"I love you," Steve says between one heady moment and the next, and Tony finds himself hanging onto Steve's wrists and trying to keep his knees from folding up underneath him entirely, because that's—that's—God in heaven he better figure out some sort of coherent reaction to that soon. 

Instead, Steve shifts around and shoves their hips together, and, ok, that's definitely Steve's erection pressing hot against Tony's thigh, and that, at least, he knows he has a reaction for. 

"So when you said we'd be 'up' in a few minutes, did you mean—" 

Steve groans against his shoulder. 

"Shut _up_ , Tony," he says, and Tony laughs, unable to help it because this is surreal, this is impossible and he's never felt quite so happy as he does now. 

*** 

It's much later, after they've made themselves somewhat presentable and talked to the team and the press and everyone else that needs reassurance that yes, everything's fine now, Tony's fine, the team is fine, even Bob Reynolds will probably be fine, eventually (as fine as any superhero ever really is, anyway), that Tony says it back. 

He waits until they're alone, the team gone out or home or sufficiently busy elsewhere that he's relatively certain they won't be interrupted again. Steve's just sitting on a couch in the library, reading something about a new superhero team in Australia somewhere while Tony works on the handful of projects that still need approval since he went off-grid, and every time Tony catches himself staring he feels the same warmth all through him, a glow under his skin and the swooping thrill of freefall. 

_Man up Stark_ , he tells himself. _You can do this._

"I love you too," he says, and it feels like he's talking in a vacuum, the quiet of the room stealing air from his lungs. But Steve looks up from his newspaper and smiles, all clear blue eyes and perfect confidence. He scoots closer, picks up Tony's hand and kisses the back of it. 

"I know, Tony," he says, intertwining their fingers. "Still nice to hear, though." 

Tony swallows against the knot in his throat and squeezes Steve's hand. 

Ok then. At least that much is settled. 


End file.
